


Following Orders

by juliasets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (in the beginning), (in the second half), Aftermath of Possession, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Pre-Season/Series 01, Sam Winchester Big Bang 2019, Season/Series 14, unethical use of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliasets/pseuds/juliasets
Summary: “Sam’s not really big on following orders.”“Is that what you think?”When Sam is fifteen John turns to witchcraft to keep his family safe from Sam’s burgeoning teenage rebellion and it forever changes the dynamics of the family. Twenty years later the truth comes out and leaves Sam and Dean struggling with the aftermath, including a search for a cure. Meanwhile, they have to contend with the devastation that Michael is wrecking on their world.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Sam Winchester Big Bang 2018](http://samwinchesterbigbang.tumblr.com/).
> 
> There are a lot of people I need to thank for helping me out with this.
> 
> First and foremost, I want to acknowledge the stunning work of my artist, [sweetheartdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/). She went above and beyond not only illustrating this fic but also listening when I complained for the billionth time that I couldn’t figure out what to write. Her suggestions (and her interests, which fortunately closely align with mine) made this story immeasurably better.
> 
> I also had a lot of help from [artherra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artherra/), whose brutal honesty about my garbage original ending saved this story. I’m so much happier with the story as a whole after making some major revisions. Hopefully she is too.
> 
> [Interstitial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstitial/) and [daydreaming_scribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreaming_Scribe/) also provided some much needed moral support as we all struggled to finish our bangs on time. Definitely go check out their Sam Winchester Mini Bangs!

Years later Sam will pinpoint this hunt as where it all went wrong. At first the anger towards John burned so hot and bright that it obscured all other feelings. Eventually the monotony of the intervening years and of dealing with his curse dulled that pain, banked the fire so that the guilt could shine through.

If only he’d listened, he told himself much later. If only he’d been the good son that John wanted him to be, maybe this could’ve been avoided.

Even in his darkest moments he didn’t believe it.

It was a ghost hunt. John was still Dad back then, even as Sam raged at him about being pulled out of school _again_ and dragged out in the middle of the night _again_ to go after the vengeful spirit. This was only a few months after Mr. Wyatt lit a spark in him, the idea that he didn’t have to be a hunter. Dad didn’t understand where this sudden rebelliousness came from and he definitely didn’t like it. They’d been fighting like cats and dogs and even though neither would back down, all three of them were exhausted by the continuous conflict.

Sam had stayed up late the previous night finishing homework. After a full day of school he was exhausted and cranky. So Dad left him on guard duty while he and Dean dug up the bones. He’d kept up a constant stream of complaints about this hunt, about the town they were in, about the dubious parenting choice of keeping your teenage son up until the early hours of the morning when he had school tomorrow.

In the years after he’ll wonder if John was right, if his anger towards the hunt was why he hadn’t seen the ghost until it was too late.

It doesn’t really matter. John thought so.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if the apparition had attacked Sam, but instead she went after Dean. Sam didn’t even see her before she lobbed a rock they’d dug out of her grave at Dean’s head. It hit with a meaty _thunk_ and Dean flopped to the bottom of the half-dug grave like a wet rag.

Dad yelled and Sam threw a handful of salt—these were the days before rock salt shotgun shells made their lives so much easier. The ghost flickered away and Sam fell to his knees next to the hole. “Is he okay?”

Dad was already at Dean’s side, checking him over by the light of his flashlight. In the wavering beam Sam could see the blood coating the side of Dean’s face.

“Dad? Is he gonna be okay?”

“Damnit, Sam, keep an eye out for the ghost!”

Sam scrambled up, swiveling his head, his stomach sitting somewhere around his knees. Dean had to be okay.

The spirit still hadn’t reappeared a few minutes later when Dean finally regained consciousness with  a pained groan. Sam’s heart hammered in his throat as he listened to John try to assess him, but Dean sounded confused and out of it and the panic only rose as he thought about Dean and brain damage.

“Sam, get over here, we need to get him to a hospital.”

Sam dropped the bag of rock salt and knelt at the side of the pit, helping his dad support Dean as he crawled onto the graveyard lawn.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, and it should have been reassuring but Dean’s voice was slurred and the panic in Sam’s chest just kept spiraling higher and higher.

They both supported Dean as he stumbled towards the car. John put him in back with Sam.

“If you had been keeping watch instead of sulking this would never have happened!”

It hit harder than any blow, knocked all the wind out of him. He couldn’t even respond, mouth gaping open in shock as he supported Dean’s boneless weight with his body.

Dean spent two days in the hospital before they broke him out. He didn’t seem to notice Sam’s quiet guilt, too out of it to notice much for a while. It was like an open, festering wound. At the time Sam thought the guilt would be worse than any punishment Dad could give him.

He should’ve known better than to underestimate John Winchester.


	2. Chapter One

Sam felt the pain first, a throbbing ache ricocheting through his head. He groaned, disoriented. What was going on? Why did his head hurt?

What was the last thing he remembered?

Dad had gotten back from dropping Dean off with Caleb, where he was going to practice shooting. Dean was having trouble with his aim. “Post concussive syndrome.” Sam’s stomach turned every time he thought about it, the guilt eating away at him like acid in his gut. Dean said he didn’t blame Sam, but it didn’t matter because Sam blamed himself.

But all of that didn’t explain why _Sam’s_ head hurt.

Dad had returned, and he’d been drinking. Liquor, whiskey. He’d offered Sam some. That was a little weird, but Sam had accepted. They were talking. Bonding. It was almost nice.

But then his memory went blank. And now this.

When he cracked his eyes open the dim light sent daggers into back of his skull, but he forced them to stay open. The light was flickering. Firelight.

Only when he tried to move did he become aware that his arms and legs were tied down. That’s when the panicking began.

His head rolled against the ground as he pulled at his bonds.

He was surrounded by candles. Big, thick ones sitting on the concrete floor. The floor itself was covered in chalk, swirling patterns that Sam recognized as spellwork.

A witch?

That was also when he realized that the chills running through him were from his skin lying pressed up against the concrete. He’d been stripped of all his clothes. His whole body flushed with embarrassment, but that rush of blood failed to ward off the cold.

Sam heard footsteps and whipped his head around to look for the approaching witch.

He saw his dad instead.

“Dad! What happened?” he asked, tugging again on his bound arms. It was humiliating, being tied up and naked and waiting for his dad to save him, but right now he just wanted to get free.

“Stop struggling, Sam,” Dad said. “You’ll only hurt yourself.” But he didn’t move to untie Sam. Instead he walked to a table just outside the spell circle. The table—the altar, Sam corrected himself—was lit by candles, but Sam couldn’t see much of what was on it from his low angle.

“Dad?” Sam asked. There was a sick feeling growing in his stomach. “Are you going to untie me?”

“Once we’re done,” he said.

Something flipped over in Sam’s gut at the words. “What’re you doing?”

Dad sighed and leaned forward onto the altar, head hanging heavy between hunched shoulders. Sam’s breaths came thin and quick, the pain in his head all but forgotten as he tried to figure out what was going on here. It couldn’t be what it seemed. There was a realization that Sam was approaching, but every time he got close his brain stuttered and restarted.

Finally Dad pushed himself away from the table. He knelt down, just outside the markings near Sam’s head. “I’m going to do a spell, Sam. But I promise, I’ve done my research. It’ll be okay.”

Sam he felt a chill run through him at his dad’s words, even colder than the concrete. “What kind of spell?”

“It’s going to help.”

“What?” Sam breathed out. “Dad, no…”

Dad continued on like he hadn’t even heard. “I need to be able to trust you, Sam, and I can’t right now.”

“Dad, please. Please, don’t. I promise, I’ll be better, I promise.” Sam’s begging sounded pathetic even to his own ears, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t let Dad do this to him. His eyes burned as tears began to run down the sides of his face.

“I have to,” Dad said. “I need to keep you safe. Keep _Dean_ safe. You’ve been impossible to reason with for months. Dean and I need to be able to trust you at our backs.” He didn’t sound happy about it, but Sam could still hear the tempered steel in his voice. Dad stood again and moved back to the altar.

“Is this because of Dean getting hurt?” Sam sobbed. “I’m sorry. Dad, I’m sorry!”

“Stop, Sam.”

“Please don’t…”

“Sam!” Dad barked. “Stop.”

And the worst thing was that Sam knew it wouldn’t work. Once Dad made a decision he never wavered. It was something they fought about often.

Full body shivers ran down Sam’s body, now more fear than cold, as Dad placed some ingredients in a bowl. He lit a match and said a spell, but Sam could only barely make out the words over his chattering teeth. The flames in the bowl burst up, tall and blue, and Sam felt an echoing burn inside him. He threw his head back into the concrete floor as he screamed out his pain, arms and legs straining against the ropes that bound him. His vision whited out. Eventually the fire within him burned so hot that it stole his breath, left him gasping with the pain of it.

Even when the burning stopped, the memory of it tingled through his nerves. He’d lost track of time in the haze.

Tears were running down his cheeks, but Sam kept his eyes closed. Through his sparking nerve endings he could tell that something was different in him. Sam had always felt a little… off. A little wrong. Unclean. But whatever he’d thought before paled in comparison to the twisted thing he felt inside himself.

He would fix it. That’s what he told himself. He’d fix it. Dean wouldn’t be okay with this, Dean would help him. They’d go to Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby’s and they’d fix it.

A cool finger on his forehead startled him out of his trance. His eyes snapped open to find John once again crouched next to him. There was something on John’s fingers, something he was smearing across Sam’s forehead.

“What?” Sam croaked, voice hoarse from screaming.

John was silent.

A fresh chill rushed through Sam. He knew it was another spell, but at this point the horror was too all consuming for him to react. It didn’t even feel like it was happening to him anymore. John couldn’t possibly have done this. Not John Winchester, who hated witches and magic and anything associated with them. This couldn’t be happening.

John finished painting whatever sigil on Sam’s forehead. There was a rustling of paper and then John was speaking a language that Sam didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Latin. When he finished the incantation he pressed a thumb between Sam’s eyebrows and something stabbed into Sam’s brain. Sam’s mouth gaped open as he struggled for breath around the pain.

That was the end of it. John undid the straps securing him to the floor and helped him sit up. John wrapped a blanket around Sam’s shoulders as he huddled in a ball, shaking. He wanted to fight, wanted to push away John’s steady hands, but he was too worn down by the pain, the humiliation, the horror curdling in his gut next to the pulsing darkness of the spell. So when John helped him stand on shaky legs he leaned into his father’s embrace, even as his skin crawled with revulsion.

Somehow he knew, even then, that it would only get worse from there.

 

* * *

 

Sam spent the next week curled up in bed. John mostly left him alone, which was surprising. No long training days, no target practice, nothing. They were subletting a two-bedroom apartment, so in Dean’s absence Sam had a room to himself. The summer had just begun so he didn’t have school. He wished that he had a book to read or something to pass the time.

Instead he huddled under thin sheets and tried to think of nothing at all.

When he’d first been cursed it had felt like an open wound, something infected and twisted inside of him. After a week in bed that wound had scabbed over, but he could still feel the toxin festering.

He didn’t know why his father hadn’t used his newfound power over Sam to make him train or anything. He could only imagine that it was coming eventually. The fear of it lay smoldering in his chest, ready to rise up and choke him whenever he considered it too closely.

When the week was up heavy footsteps approached the room and Sam’s body tensed in anticipation. John opened the door without so much as a knock and stood, his broad figure filling the frame.

“Pack your things. We’re heading out in fifteen.”

It was only after his footsteps receded that Sam was able to let out a shaky breath. With practiced movements he retrieved his duffel from under the bed and started to pack it. Ten minutes later he was nearly done when he realized something: he didn’t feel any different.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He still had a pit in his stomach from where the spell had sunk its hooks into him. And sure, he’d packed his bags, but he hadn’t felt any unnatural compulsion to do so. He was sure the spell had done something, he could feel it inside of him, but was its effect so subtle that Sam couldn’t tell the difference between its influence and his normal reactions? The idea was frightening, possibly more so than being turned into some sort of obedient puppet.

Exactly fourteen minutes after John told him to pack up Sam was carrying his things out to the Impala. He set his bag in the trunk, but hesitated as he stepped around the side of the car. Usually Dean sat shotgun. Sam had sat there a few times and usually relished the chance, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to be that close to John. They had a long drive ahead of them if they were picking Dean up at Caleb’s.

While he was dithering John walked up and nodded toward the front seat. “Get in.”

Sam did so, still noting the absence of any unnatural compulsions. If the spell hadn’t worked right he didn’t want to tip John off by disobeying. Maybe it didn’t work on every order or maybe there was some sort of code word. Either way, Sam didn’t want to raise suspicions.

John turned on a local radio station as they headed out. They didn’t talk for the first hour or so, until the radio started to lose signal in the hills. Sam had occupied himself by staring out the window quietly, but he noticed when John switched the stuttering radio off.

“Caleb says that Dean is doing well,” John said.

Sam nodded, honestly relieved to hear it. “That’s good.”

John shifted in his seat, rolling and resettling his shoulders, his hands flexing in their grip on the steering wheel.

“I want to explain about the spell.”

It wasn’t what Sam expected him to say. John usually wasn’t big on explanations. But maybe he was regretting it? If nothing else, regretting that he’d stooped to magic use. John Winchester had no patience for witchcraft.

But his next words were far from regretful.

“I know we haven’t gotten along lately, but I really think this will help.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek, hoping to stifle the angry words that rose up in his chest. Because, sure, they’d been fighting. John couldn’t understand that Sam wasn’t like Dean, wasn’t ever going to be the hunter his older brother was. Dean sometimes rolled his eyes at Sam, joked about moody teenagers like he wasn’t just nineteen himself.

Sam bristled at that every time. He didn’t just argue for the hell of it. He often had found something in the research or the lore and was trying to help. True, he also argued when he had to switch schools or move at an inopportune time, but it wasn’t _unreasonable_ to want to spent more than a month at each school.

John continued, unaware of the frustration boiling over in his son.  “The spell can’t compel obedience to the caster of the spell. A safeguard”

It took a second for Sam to parse what that meant.

He didn’t have to obey John? Then who? How? Questions spun through his head, but John plowed on, heedless. “You and Dean get along most of the time. It won’t be so bad.”

That caught his attention, his whirling thoughts arrested by the realization. “I have to obey _Dean_?”

John shot a quick look over at him. “Dean’s a good hunter. A good brother. You could stand to take some cues from him.”

Sam didn’t exactly disagree. Dean was his best friend. Most of the time Dean was his only friend. And he was a natural hunter. But they were brothers. They picked on each other, fought over stupid stuff. It was bad enough that Sam was convinced Dean would always be physically bigger than him, would always win the fights when they escalated to the physical. Now he’d have another advantage, an insurmountable one.

“Dean’s okay with this?” The thought turned Sam’s stomach.

“Dean doesn’t know.”

Sam hadn’t expected that. “You’re going to tell him, though. Right?” He was embarrassed by how timid he sounded, but he couldn’t bring himself to be any more direct. John had thrown even their tumultuous equilibrium out of whack with what he’d done and Sam found himself unmoored, lost, struggling to find his way back to solid ground. Back to some understanding of his place in the family.

“I’ll make sure he behaves,” John said. “He’s a good hunter, you’ll be better off listening to him.”

Sam bit back his immediate response, but John knew him well enough to predict his thoughts.

“You won’t tell him either,” John said. “That’s what the second spell was for.”

Sam only hazily remembered the last moments in that storage unit, memory too addled by pain and his own reluctance to think back over what had transpired there. But he remembered the second spell, the pain in his head. He didn’t know how the spell would keep him from telling people about what John had done, but he believed him. John always did his research.

Of course John wouldn’t tell Dean. Dean wouldn’t have let this happen. That’s why John waited until he was staying with Caleb to do it. It was becoming clear how meticulously this had been planned out. Not just finding the first spell, but the timing in casting it. Then the second spell to keep him quiet.

Sam fought against the panic that was rising in him. He’d figure something out. There had to be loopholes, ways to make Dean understand what had happened. Sam was smart and getting better at research every day. He told himself that he’d find a way to break the spells.

He had to.

* * *

The sun was setting after a long summer day when they pulled up to Caleb’s cabin. Dean was already standing outside on the porch, his thousand-watt smile shining in the Impala’s headlights. John had barely shut off the ignition and stepped out of the car before Dean was hugging him.

“Hey Dean,” John said, before turning to Caleb, who’d just emerged through the cabin’s front door. “He give you any trouble?”

“No more than I can handle,” Caleb joked back.

“Sam, you okay?”

Sam was standing next to the Impala, duffel slung over his shoulder, frozen in his tracks as his mind warred between relief and dread.

 _No!_ he protested. The drive had been long enough that his terror had turned to rage. He wanted to shout, to yell about what had been done to him. He’d tell them everything.

But what came out of his mouth was: “Sure, Dean.”

“Get over here,” Dean said, opening his arms.

That’s the first time he felt it, the tug on something centered deep inside of himself. His feet stepped forward without hesitation, moving into the embrace. Dean’s arms circled his shoulders. It was a feeling Sam normally relished, but now it made him feel trapped, claustrophobic. A shudder ran through him, and he buried his face into Dean’s shoulder.

“Woah, Sammy,” Dean said. “What’s up?”

 _Dad cursed me_ , he screamed inside his own mind. _Help me!_

He tried to make the words come out. Somewhere in between his brain and his mouth everything got twisted around. “Nothing. I just missed you. Jerk.”

Dean huffed out a laugh against the side of Sam’s head. “Yeah, you too, bitch.”

 

* * *

 

Sam shoved another piece of pizza in his mouth and pushed Bones away from where the dog was desperately trying to take a bite out of it. “No, boy. Sit.”

He pulled the blanket back around himself. Flagstaff was a lot colder at night than he thought Arizona would be.

After finishing the pizza (and giving Bones some more pets) he pulled the heavy tome on witchcraft back across the couch and into his lap.

It had been over two months since he was cursed. He’d spent that time carefully testing the spell’s boundaries.

Only direct orders worked, but the curse didn’t seem to differentiate between serious commands and sarcasm. That was dangerous. Sam could fight it for a little bit, maybe a handful of seconds, before he always succumbed. Sometimes that was long enough for Sam to talk Dean into saying something that would cancel the order.

Dean didn’t seem to notice any difference, which was a constant sore spot with Sam. After Dean snapped at him to ‘shut up’ and left Sam mute for nearly a full day he’d taken to avoiding his brother as much as possible, which seemed to hurt his feelings. Sam was on edge whenever he needed to be around Dean, though the silencing spell forced him to deflect any questions with ease.

The last straw had been three days ago, when Dean told Sam to ‘get lost’ before retreating into the bathroom for the only privacy a motel room afforded. Sam had been able to fight the curse long enough to grab his jacket, wallet, empty duffel bag, and butterfly knife before he’d walked out the motel door into the stuffy Colorado night.

He’d zoned out, hoping that if he focused only on his feet and didn’t pay attention to where he was going the curse might consider itself fulfilled more quickly. But John Winchester had trained his sons well and so even when he wasn’t paying full attention a part of Sam’s brain was always noting his surroundings. Sam had a knack for directions that now felt more like a burden.

It took a lot to get Sam Winchester lost.

By the time he’d finally managed to ‘succeed’ the sun was coming up and he was countless miles away. Probably still in Colorado, but walking along an unfamiliar county highway. He was just relieved the curse hadn’t forced him out into the wilderness—if he got truly lost in a National Forest he wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to find his way back.

As it was he decided to use the opportunity to his advantage. Sam hadn’t made much progress on researching a cure for his curse. The local libraries in Nowheresville and Podunkburg didn’t have much in the way of heavy duty occult information. So he stuck his thumb out and started hitching.

It took two days to reach Sedona. Sam had met Meadow a few years ago when John asked for her help taking down a coven. She was an expert on magic and the first person with magical knowledge that Sam ever knew his dad to not instantly hate on sight. It helped that she didn’t have much magical ability herself; her interest was more academic. But her collection of books on witchcraft was unmatched. Or so John said.

Sam hoped he was right.

But given that he couldn’t explain to Meadow why he needed her help he opted to break into her house and steal what he needed.

Fortunately, Meadow was such a hippie that she didn’t seem to believe in security. The lock on her door was ridiculously easy to pick. He’d shoved anything that looked useful in his duffel.

After that he’d run as far away as Flagstaff. He’d walked most of the way and it had taken the better part of a day. It wasn’t that bad, though. The highway wound its way through painted canyons and desert scrubland and across bridges with gorgeous views of distant mesas.  Eventually it had headed up into the mountains and Coconino National Forest.

He’d had a couple offers to hitchhike, but after the two days he’d hitched to Arizona the cars looked claustrophobic. The weather was decent even though his bag was full of books it wasn’t very heavy with nothing else in it. The clear blue sky and red rocks and wide open nature somehow served as a balm on the place in his soul that had been scarred by his curse. It didn’t feel like anyone had any power over him here. He felt free.

He’d finally hopped in a car when the shoulder of the road disappeared as it headed up some switchbacks into the mountain. He didn’t want to end up as roadkill. Luisa and Sarah had dropped him off on the outskirts of Flagstaff. Luisa had pressed a twenty dollar bill and her home number into his hands as he left, no matter how much he reassured them that he was fine.

He accepted the money, though. Sam never had much cash and it wasn’t like he could go out and hustle pool like John and Dean did. Shoplifting granola bars from convenience stores could only get him so far.

That’s how he’d found the dog. The gorgeous golden retriever had come up to him while he was sitting on a curb outside the city, relishing a cheap fast food burger. A few tossed French fries earned his eternal devotion.

The dog didn’t have a collar, but his fur was smooth and clean, so Sam was sure he wasn’t a stray. But he had no idea where the local humane society was and that was as good an excuse as any to keep the dog with him as he headed outside the city.

“Sorry, boy, I don’t have any bones for you,” Sam said.

The dog barked, tail wagging furiously.

“Bones?”

Another bark.

And he had a name.

Flagstaff was near enough to the Grand Canyon that it got some tourism business, and it was on the old Route 66 so once upon a time it used to get even more. That made it not terribly difficult to find a run-down cabin that was unlikely to get rented out, even now at the height of tourist season.

Sam had been at the cabin for going on a week. None of Meadow’s books gave him anything useful, though he was getting a better handle on witchcraft more generally. Sam didn’t think that John had sold his soul to a demon for the power to curse him. Unless John was a natural at witchcraft—something Sam found hard to believe—he still wasn’t sure what the source for the spell was.

Unsurprisingly, a spell of this nature was considered pretty dark magic. It took serious power.

Power that Sam had no idea how to undo.

After quickly making his way through all of Meadow’s occult books, Sam realized that he’d need to start at the basics. No generic counter-curse was going to cut it this time. For that he’d need to figure out what the original curse was.

John’s journal didn’t seem to have any information on it, from the cursory look Sam managed to steal a few weeks back. The only thing he had to go off of was the effects of the spell and the words he only barely remembered hearing John say.

The first step was to try and figure out what language John was using. It wasn’t Latin, nor did it sound like the other languages Sam was familiar with. Aside from Latin, Sam knew a smattering of Spanish, French, German, and Russian, since the schools he bounced around all offered up different language classes.

He tried to remember the exact wording, but could only get a couple words or fragments of words. He wrote them down as best he could phonetically in a notebook he’d lifted from a store.

The only decent library in Flagstaff was at the local university. Sam set out before the sun rose to walk two hours to the library. He was going to be gone all day, between walking and research, so he’d taken Bones with him and stopped at a local pet shelter. The people there were very nice.

It still hurt watching them take him away.

After he went to the library and spent the full day there before heading back late that night.

The cabin was a lot more lonely without Bones. But it was for the best. Sam was sure he had owners somewhere who had been looking for him. They’d be so happy to see him. He’d probably be happier eating real dog food instead of the crusts off Sam’s pizza. It was for the best.

He told himself that all night. And if the tears on his cheeks suggested anything different, he tried to convince himself he was glad no one was around to make fun of him.

 

* * *

 

The trip to the library was a little too laborious to make frequently, so Sam used the days off in between to go back through his notes and Meadow’s books. He only managed to visit once more, and that trip was just as fruitless.

About two weeks after he’d walked out of the motel in Colorado Sam heard footsteps on the front porch. At first he was worried it was the manager, come to kick out the squatter. He eyed up the window in the bathroom at the back of the cabin, planning out his escape. But then he realized he recognized that heavy tread of boots.

He quickly shoved Meadow’s books underneath the ratty old sofa. There was no running from this.

The doorknob rattled, but Sam had bolted the door shut so he had a few more moments. Since he left in such a hurry he didn’t have much to pack away now. He shoved his notebook into the mostly empty duffel and grabbed his butterfly knife.

You know, just in case.

He flipped the blade open and held it firmly as he edged his way up to one of the front windows. As carefully as possible he nudged open the shade.

There was a knock at the door and, suspicions confirmed, Sam put his knife away, flipped the deadbolt, and swung the door open.

John Winchester filled the doorway, his expression like a tornado siren blaring out a warning of the approaching storm.

Sam’s stomach was queasy with nerves, but he steeled himself. This wasn’t his fault. John’s stupid curse did this. He set his mouth in a line and didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he could say anything if he wanted—he was pretty sure if he opened his mouth he’d throw up.

“Sam.”

Sam met his glare as best as he could. His gaze flickered to John’s side for a split second, long enough to see his brother standing off to the side. Dean’s left eye was blackened and it made rage bubble up in Sam, too fast for him to keep it off his face.

Like a chain reaction, Sam’s growing anger lit John’s own temper. He stepped forward and Sam couldn’t help the instinctive flinch back, but he quickly drew himself back up as tall as he could. Which, despite a recent growth spurt, wasn’t very tall at all.

John didn’t back down, but he tilted his head off to the side. “Dean, how about you go get us some pizza.” It, of course, wasn’t a question.

From the corner of his eye Sam could see Dean give him a look of concern. A part of Sam quailed at the idea of being stuck here with John alone— _not again, not again, not again,_ the refrain looping through his brain for two months now—but he also couldn’t discuss the curse with Dean present. So he needed Dean gone as well.

Despite that, Sam couldn’t help but feel abandoned when his brother left without a word.

“You gonna let me in, son?” John asked.

Sam considered for a moment—thought of saying “no, _sir”_ and it was easy to imagine the ensuing explosion—but in the end moved aside and let John step into cabin. Though it was only one room, Sam hadn’t thought of the cabin as small in the two weeks he’d squatted there. But it was downright claustrophobic with John Winchester taking up all the extra space.

Sam closed the door behind him.

“That was a stupid move, running off like that,” John started in. Of course he wasn’t going to ask for an explanation. Suddenly, he surged forward, latching a large hand around Sam’s upper arm. “Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

Sam froze at first in his father’s grip, but his roiling anger helped him yank his arm away even as his stomach hollowed out with fear. “It wasn’t my idea!”

“Oh yeah? Who’s idea was it then to disappear like that? You scared your brother half to death.”

“It was _his_ ,” Sam bit out. “Dean told me to ‘get lost’, _John,_ and your stupid curse meant I had to do it!”

That seemed to shock him, at least enough for Sam to get a word in edgewise.

“You have to tell Dean,” Sam insisted. “Or, better yet, you have to undo the curse.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I have to do. I’m your father.”

“So how about you act like one?”

John raised a hand and Sam flinched back, but held his ground. John’s hand hung there, between them, saying more than any words could.

Do it, Sam wanted to tell him. Hit me. Show me what kind of father you are. He thought of Dean’s conspicuous black eye, the way Dean left without a word. The betrayal Sam felt every day in the wake of the curse was like a balloon inside him, expanding and pushing out any other feelings. All the things he used to feel, like happiness or joy or love, were squeezed out of him by the knowledge that his father had done this horrible thing. In the wake of that betrayal, what was a punch?

But he wasn’t quite brave enough to say it. All he could do was stand, staring John down.

“Lift the curse,” Sam said, voice tight. “Or tell me what it was and I’ll find a way to do it myself.”

“That spell is going to save your life one day. Mark my words. Might save all our lives.” He looked around. “Is that what you were doing here? Meadow called me up, said you stole some of her books.”

How’d she figure it out?

Well, duh, Sam realized. She was a witch. Magic.

“Yeah, of course I was trying to look for a way to lift the curse. What happens the next time Dean says something stupid, huh? I can’t—You can’t— _Dad, please_.”

Sam knew as soon as he said it that it was the wrong tack. John Winchester hated whiners, hated begging. And as the frustration built up inside him he felt his eyes burn with unshed tears that he couldn’t control.

“This was an accident.  I’ll tell your brother to shape up.”

“An accident that happened because he didn’t know any better. You have to _tell him_.”

“Maybe if you straighten up and fly right I will.”

It was John’s final word on the topic, Sam knew that. No one could change John Winchester’s mind once he’d decided on something. But logic was one of the things that the betrayal had pushed away, so he couldn’t help but respond. “I can’t do this.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” John scoffed.

Sam turned away. He grabbed Meadow’s books out from under the couch—John clearly already knew about them—and stuffed them in his duffel. He meant to busy himself packing, but after that there wasn’t anything else left to pack up. He hadn’t brought anything else. So instead he sat and stared at his feet. The oppressive silence eventually got to be too much for John and he went to wait for Dean outside. That he didn’t even worry about Sam running irked him.

Later that night after they’d eaten the pizza John herded them out towards the car. Dean and Sam hung back. Sam looked down with a vague sense of shame as Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him over.

Even though he’d been annoyed at Dean for his part in sending Sam away, Sam also couldn’t blame him. He knew what it must have looked like to Dean, like Sam just ran away for no reason. Or worse, that Sam had run to get away from him.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, the only explanation he could give with the curse stopping his tongue.

Dean pulled him into a hug. “Don’t do that again, okay?” His voice was thick.

Sam shivered as he felt the curse tingle beneath his skin in response. “I won’t.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m leaving.”

The words surprised even Sam. He hadn’t expected to say anything, not for another few weeks.

It was dinnertime. John and Dean were already devouring the bucket of fried chicken they’d picked up. Sam was pushing mashed potatoes around on his plate, stabbing at the side of the mound and watching the gravy he’d buried ooze out onto the plate.

He’d gotten the acceptance letter months ago. Actually, he’d gotten a few. But Stanford was the one he’d accepted.

He was going to Stanford.

Of course, when he found out he’d been still finishing up his senior year. John was moving them around more than ever, chasing hunts with a zeal that his sons couldn’t hope to match, though Dean tried. John tried to force Sam to drop out when he was old enough, like Dean had, but Sam stuck to his guns. He was a little surprised that, for the most part, Dean backed him up. He didn’t exactly go toe-to-toe with John, but John was more willing to listen to Dean when he suggested that Sam stay back to research.

Sam was just glad it worked. He needed that high school diploma.

Of course, neither Dean nor John knew why Sam was so insistent on it. Maybe Dean wouldn’t have gone to bat for him if he had.

When Sam was little he’d wanted to be a hunter. He loved his dad and his brother and he wanted to help them and make sure they were safe. But the reality of hunting—the blood, the fear, the death—stripped away any  joy he might have found in saving people. It didn’t help that he would never be able to match up with Dean. Sam could research, that was about it. And when Sam thought of hunting forever, living the life that his dad had for over a dozen years, it was like the walls were closing in on him, his breath tight in his throat. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t survive it.

Mr. Wyatt’s suggestion that he didn’t have to follow in the family business was a rope out of the dark pit Sam had been in. It seemed obvious in retrospect, but caught in the event horizon of John Winchester’s obsession Sam hadn’t even considered escape.

So he’d started to pay attention in class and his grades improved. Sam was smart. What’s more, he liked learning. Enjoyed knowing more today than he did yesterday. Even with his family moving every few weeks or months he managed to do well in his classes.

But it wasn’t until after the curse that he’d started to take it seriously. That was when he knew that he needed a real escape plan.

Dean still didn’t know about the curse. Sam didn’t think John would ever tell him.

John may have even been right about the curse saving Sam’s life, at least once. A couple years ago they’d been going after a Black Dog when Dean had yelled for Sam to duck. With all the chaos of the hunt it was hard to say if it was the curse or Sam’s own quick reflexes that saw him hitting the ground just as Dean emptied his clip above him.

John had seen it and was convinced that he’d made the right choice. He told Sam as much the next time Sam had begged him to fix the problem. John made it clear that he wouldn’t help.

That was nearly three years ago.

Sam had learned how to manage in the meantime. He found himself begging off hunts if he thought he could get away with it. School provided a useful excuse, at least when it wasn’t summer. That was how he found himself stuck behind researching information about kitsunes two years ago before accidentally befriending the subject of their hunt.

Amy was another nail in the coffin of Sam’s relationship with his family. Because he knew that if John and Dean found out they’d never believe that she was good. And whether he knew it or not, Dean could make Sam hurt her, make him kill her. He couldn’t let that happen.

Getting the records necessary to apply to college had been a struggle. Sure, he’d started to pay attention to his grades freshman year, after Mr. Wyatt had provided him with the escape route, but it took more than just good grades.

He’d enlisted help from Pastor Jim. That had been a gamble. Sam couldn’t tell him the real reason he needed to get out. But Jim hadn’t seemed very surprised about any of it and had promised to keep his secret. Getting his transcripts was annoying, but necessary. He needed them to get into upper level classes at his next school, and as proof of the GPA he’d sent with his applications. Pastor Jim stored them for him.

Last year Jim had also helped him with the application fees. Sam had saved up as much money as he could, but Jim told him to keep it for when he got to campus. Sam was torn between relief and guilt.

And all this time he’d kept it from John and Dean.

John wouldn’t understand, Sam knew that much. He’d gone as far as using spellwork to try and keep Sam in line, even though he hated witches—there was no way he was going to be accepting of Sam’s decision to leave the family business.

And he couldn’t tell Dean, no matter how much he wanted to, because Dean would never have kept it from John.

Since he’d been cursed Sam couldn’t care less what John thought of his decision. But imagining Dean’s reaction tore him up inside. Could he survive Dean’s anger, his disappointment? Sam wasn’t sure. It was the unknown variable that kept him up at night, that made him feel guilty for his sneaking around when nothing else would.

But he had to do it.

And now here he was. June was just winding down and Sam still had a couple months to go before he needed to start classes. Dean had seen Sam playing with his food. Sam could normally dodge Dean’s questions, provided they weren’t direct orders, but his luck ran out and this time Dean asked “hey, tell me what’s up.”

“I’m leaving,” was what came out of Sam’s mouth, courtesy of the spell that wouldn’t let him hold his silence. He couldn’t even deflect. Dean had ordered Sam to tell him what’s wrong and Sam was compelled to obey. He tried to hold the rest of the words in, stop them up behind his teeth, but it was no use. They came flooding out in a torrent. “I applied to college and Stanford offered me a full ride. I’m going.”

He forced his eyes off his plate and seeing Dean’s pale, shocked face sent a chill all the way through Sam. This was what he’d feared. He’d been hoping for a few goods months where he could try and be a good brother to Dean, to soften the blow. Instead the damn curse had done this to them.

But where Dean was shocked into silence, John definitely wasn’t. “Like hell you are.”

Sam didn’t think he could have argued with Dean, not about this, but he had no such compunction about going head-to-head with John Winchester. Not anymore. He squared his shoulders. “Yeah, I am.”

“I’ll be damned if you think you can just ditch your family like this, Sam.”

“It’s not _ditching_ ,” Sam argued. “It’s an opportunity. It’s my future. I can’t do this, I can’t be a hunter.”

“So you’ll just, what? Stop? Pretend like you don’t know any better? Go to school and act _normal?_ ” John spat the word out like poison. “You think you can be normal? There is no normal!”

“I’m going and you can’t stop me,” Sam insisted, pushing away from the table and heading over to his bed.

It was the exact wrong thing to say. “We’ll see about that,” he hissed, before turning to Dean, who was still frozen in shock. “Tell your brother that he’s not leaving.”

It chilled Sam to the bone. John hadn’t ever invoked the curse directly like this before. Sam didn’t know how the spell would react if Dean obeyed. Would he be trapped forever? Would it eventually wear off long enough for him to escape?

He couldn’t chance it. Hurriedly, he began packing his duffel, shoving shirts in haphazardly, hoping to get out while he still could.

“What?” Dean said behind him.

“Maybe you can make your brother listen to reason,” John said, almost diplomatically.

But Sam was already zipping his bag closed; he hadn’t had much to pack. He slung the bag over his shoulder and moved towards the door. John was closer, though, and stepped between him and the exit.

Sam had shot up in height after his sophomore year, he was nearly as tall as John now. But even with his newfound height his father still cut an imposing figure. John was broad and muscled and Sam had sparred with him enough to know that he was outmatched if this turned physical. He couldn’t back down, though. This was it, this was his last chance for freedom, this was the only way he could survive what his father had done to him.

“Try me,” John said darkly.

“Dad, c’mon,” Dean spoke up.

John looked over at his eldest, at his good son. Sam wasn’t sure what he saw there. Sam couldn’t look, because he knew from the sound of Dean’s wrecked voice that if he saw  he’d lose all his courage.

Whatever John saw made him step aside.

Sam moved forward, entire body tight with fear as he grabbed for the handle.

“Sam. If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back,” John growled.

So this was it. With Dean’s miserable silence it was down to Sam to make the choice.

He opened the door and stepped through.

 

* * *

 

Sam considered himself lucky that he’d chosen to go to Stanford because San Francisco wasn’t the worst place to be homeless for a few months. It had taken days of long bus rides to get to the city and that had taken a chunk out of his savings. He considered trying to find a cheap motel, but doing so would’ve totally depleted his cash and he wanted to save some, just in case.

He had no idea what to expect from college.

San Francisco in summer was warm enough that Sam avoided the shelters and holed up in parks or little-used doorways. A few people tried to mess with him, but Sam kept his knife handy and that was enough to deter most of them. His fellow homeless were mostly just people down on their luck and not looking for a real fight. The few who persisted wished they hadn’t.

He got a few odd jobs busing tables and whatnot. They let him pick at the food left behind on plates so he could sometimes avoid paying for meals.

Still, it was a relief when he finally reached his move-in date for the dorms. Sam got up early that morning and treated himself to a real breakfast at a diner. He scrubbed himself down as best he could in the diner’s pint-sized bathroom.

He got to his dorm just as move-in began and got his key quickly. Other families were busy unloading their children’s belongings from cars and trucks into large, rolling bins, but Sam went right up to his room.

The room was perfectly symmetrical, with two beds, dressers, and desks mirroring each other on each side. A large window on the other end was bookended by built-in shelves. It was smaller than most motel rooms, but clean and it was _his._

Well, half of it, at least.

Sam unpacked his clothes and stored them in one of the dressers. He grabbed out a notebook and pen from the bag and began to make a list of the things he’d need to buy. First up was a pillow and bedsheets—Sam hadn’t realized that the beds wouldn’t come with any. His family had never owned any, at least not that he’d remembered.

“Hey,” came a voice from the open doorway. Sam looked up to see a skinny blond guy standing there. “Sam, right?”

 “Yeah. Tyson?” Sam got up and shook his hand as his new roommate entered the room.

“Yeah. These are my parents,” he said, gesturing to the middle-aged couple behind him. Tyson’s mom had blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and his dad was tall and lanky. They both had stylish glasses. Sam had gotten a laugh out of finding out that his roommate’s last name was Brady. Even though they didn’t look much like Robert Reed or Florence Henderson they still exuded that same wholesome family vibe.

Sam greeted both, shook their hands, before offering to help them move Tyson’s stuff in. Sam and Tyson’s dad worked on lofting the beds, even though Sam didn’t really need the extra room it provided.

When they finished the room looked decidedly lopsided, filled on one side with Tyson’s desktop computer and TV and futon and assorted dorm decorations. He was going to hang his posters later.

“When is your stuff getting here?” Tyson’s mom asked.

“I’m all set,” Sam replied, pulling out the reassuring smile he’d offered to school counselors and social workers across the lower forty-eight. If you smiled too big, it looked fake. Had to aim for ‘content’. Pretend like he was one of those people who didn’t like to own much stuff. _I’m just not very materialistic_ , his smile tried to say.

He didn’t miss the looks that Mr. and Mrs. Brady gave each other, but at least they didn’t act like he was too pitiful. They did insist that he come out to dinner with them and even Sam’s considerable pride couldn’t allow him to pass up free food. The restaurant they took him to was just standard bar food, burgers and such, but at twice the cost that Sam was used to. It was delicious, especially after two months of living rough.

Sam didn’t make it out to buy bedsheets, but Brady lent him a fleece blanket and he fell asleep warm and safe and full for the first time in weeks.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jess asked.

They were in bed, in the apartment they shared. She’d changed out of the sexy nurse ensemble, which was a shame, if you asked him.

“Talk about what?” Sam wasn’t playing coy. Other than his simmering distaste for Halloween, the night had gone pretty well. They’d started out at a bar, but at Luis’ prodding had ended up crashing some weird frat party.  Frats weren’t exactly their ideal scene, so they’d headed home pretty early. It was weird to think of himself as old at twenty-two, but he felt like that sometimes. Freshmen looked like babies.

All that to say that he didn’t know what Jess was getting at.

She rolled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arm automatically slid around her shoulders.

“I know you don’t talk about your family,” she said.

He couldn’t help it, he froze, shoulders tightening. Stupid. An obvious tell.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Jess continued. “I mean, it’s pretty obvious that there’s some bad stuff there.”

“Bad stuff? That your professional opinion?” Sam responded as lightly as possible.

She shoved at his side with a laugh. “Yes, all my expertise from one semester of psych.”

Sam pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to the top of her blonde curls and holding his face there for long a long moment.

One of the things he loved about Jess was that she didn’t push him about his childhood. She understood, at least a little. Her parents went through a messy divorce when she was younger and they tried to get her and her sister to play favorites. He’d met each of her parents—separately of course—and they weren’t bad people, but Jess had complicated feelings about family because of it. She didn’t act like Sam was weird because he never had any family come visit.

They’d been dating for nearly two years. Sam had visited a couple local jewelers, trying to price out rings. He thought he might propose after graduation. Or maybe at it?

 “My family didn’t want me to go to college,” was what he settled on. He stared at the white expanse of the ceiling and tried to match its blankness.

“At all?”

“No. I was supposed to go into the family business.”

“What business is that?”

Sam was more prepared for that question and stopped himself from tensing up. “It doesn’t matter. I needed to get out. My dad and I, we fought all the time, and I knew he’d hate me leaving, but I didn’t think he’d disown me.”

“And your brother?”

“Yeah, Dean. He’s older. He’s… I knew he’d take it hard. Me leaving.”

“You were close?”

Sam huffed a laugh into her hair. “Yeah, very. We moved around a lot so a lot of times it was just me and him, you know?”

Three years at Stanford had dulled the memory of the fights and teasing and the pervasive corruption of Sam’s curse. If he focused he could still feel the spell inside of him, but without Dean it didn’t matter. On most days he could ignore it. So when he thought back on his brother what he thought of was sneaking into movie theaters and nearly burning down a field with fireworks, not hiding out down the street when Dean was in a bad mood to avoid being caught by an absentminded angry order.

“I would have gone nuts if it was just me and Erica,” Jessica said into his chest.

“I’m not saying we didn’t, at times.” Sam agreed. “But you have to get over it when there’s no one else, you know?”

Jess probably didn’t really get that. For all that her family life was messy, in other ways it was mundanely middle class. She’d lived in the same city her whole life up until coming to Stanford. She had friends from back home who came to visit.

Sam’s only friends were here at school and they were the first friends he’d ever had for more than a few months.

Other than Dean.

“No offense, Sam,” Jess started and Sam tried not to tense up, worried that he’d revealed too much. Was this the weird straw that broke the camel’s back? She tilted her head back to look up at him. “But your family is dumb.”

Sam grinned, craned his neck and she met him for a kiss.

“I’m proud of you,” she said, gaze earnest. “And I love you.”

“I know,” Sam replied, solemnly.

She smacked his chest. “You dork.” But she was laughing as she pulled away to curl up and fall asleep.

Three hours later, Sam woke up to the sound of someone breaking into his apartment.

And two days later, Jess was gone.


	3. Chapter Two

For a very long time there was no Dean Winchester.

Once, a rattled Jimmy Novak described being possessed by an angel as like being “chained to a comet.” Later, when Dean was able to bring this comparison to mind, he thought it was understated. Or maybe everything was just bigger with archangels.

Being possessed by Michael was like standing in the epicenter of a supernova. Like drowning in the core of the sun.

Dean tried to fight it, of course he did. But how do you fight a forest fire? A nuclear explosion? Fighting only weakened him as the inferno burnt of parts of what he used to be until there was very left that could be called Dean Winchester at all.

At some point in the long, unfathomable conflagration something slipped between Dean and the roar. With the blaze subdued he could begin to reconstitute himself, piece by piece.

When he was mostly whole again the world blinked into being and Dean found himself standing in an abattoir.

His first instinct, before he could even register where he was, was to search the bodies surrounding him for recognizable faces. Finding none, he heaved a sigh of relief. Or, he would have, had he had control of his body.

“Dean,” his mouth said.

A wave of revulsion rolled through him, somewhere deep in his soul, but his body stood impassively in the center of the room. He couldn’t even shudder.

“Fuck you,” Dean said, surprised that the words even came out of his mouth.

“Eloquent as always,” his mouth replied. Dean caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a shard of a broken mirror. It was unnerving to see someone else speak through him.

Not someone. Michael.

“We had a deal,” Dean growled.

His face, which he’d pulled into a frown, smoothed out seemingly on its own. But Dean knew who was pulling those strings. “I upheld my side of the deal,” Michael replied. “I left you in charge to fight my brother. And you performed… adequately.”

“Pretty sure part of that deal was that it would be a one-time thing,” Dean said.

“And it is,” Michael replied. “One time, which is not yet over. You didn’t specify an end condition.”

“I thought you assholes need permission,” Dean snapped.

Michael turned Dean’s lips up into a smile. “You know better.”

It was weird feeling sickened without the proper nervous system reaction. There was no pit in his stomach because Michael controlled that. Without the physical reaction distracting him he could feel the regret eat at his soul. He did, really. What he’d done with Gadreel, those years ago while panicking over Sam’s unconscious body, Sam hadn’t allowed that. Not really. But it had worked nonetheless.

“Of course, the trickery was so unnecessary,” Michael continued, seeing exactly what Dean was thinking of. “When you could’ve just ordered him to do so.”

“Sam’s not really big on following orders,” Dean said.

Amusement rippled through Dean, but not his own. The foreign emotion tripped through his chest, clashing against the anger and frustration he felt.

“Is that what you think?”

Dean didn’t have time for Michael’s smug bullshit. “What do you want?”

“I want you to tell your brother to stand down.”

“Since we’re sharing a body I know you heard me when I said that Sam’s not big on following orders.”

There was a shuffling, flashes of memory racing past as Michael searched for something in his past. Dean could feel him rifling through his life like a book. “You truly don’t know,” Michael said. Dean’s mouth curled up into a smug grin that felt alien on his face. “Allow me to elaborate.”

Dean listened as his own voice told him a story as old as time—there’s something wrong with Sam—before plunging him back into the fiery abyss.

And after what he’d learned, he almost welcomed it.

 

* * *

 

The memories came back slowly. Dean hadn’t been aware of most of the things that Michael did with his body, too busy struggling for air. Too busy trying to hold onto anything of himself.

They were in the car, on the way home from a hunt. Sam had learned better at some point in their lives than to bug Dean directly about shit like this, but he was still doing the mushy puppy dog eye thing that drove Dean just as quickly up a wall. Dean was trying to ignore it. They have both been through this before, too often. He knew the drill, he got where Sam was coming from. He did.

But between his guilt and the itchy terror that his body might not be fully his own Dean was finding it hard to feel magnanimous about Sam’s well-intentioned prying. So it was unsurprising when he found himself snapping “drop it, Sam.”

And Sam did.

Now that was surprising.

_Sam’s not really big on following orders._

_Is that what you think?_

The memory rushed over him. He gripped at the steering wheel, twisting his hands as if he could wring it like a neck. Like Michael’s neck.

He glanced over. Sam’s expression is mutinous, pissed off, but also resigned. Like he knew better.

Fuck.

He didn’t want it to be true.

“Sam,” he said, voice scratching on the syllable. “Never mind, dude. I get it.”

Sam took a deep breath, but did so quietly. “It’s okay, Dean.”

Miles passed under the tires as the silence between them stretched on. Dean knew he had to say something. He had to tell Sam that he knew. But what did he know? A bunch of possible bullshit from an archangel. They’d been jerked around enough by angels. And no part of him had any idea how to start this conversation.

_Hey, Sammy, Michael told me that you’ve got some freaky mojo on you that makes you obey me._

Nothing about that made any sense to him. Sam was a stubborn bastard at the best of times. The idea that Dean had any level of control over him was just ridiculous. He could name fifty times off the top of his head where Sam hadn’t listened to him, with Ruby topping the list.

It couldn’t be true. Dean would have known.

Hell, Sam would have told him. It wasn’t like he was shy about sharing with the world when he had a problem. That was a huge, glaring flaw in Michael’s theory.

There must be a mistake. Whatever Dean saw just now was a coincidence, Sam deciding to pick his battles. That had to be it.

“Hey, Sammy, I just remembered something that Michael told me.”

Dean could practically feel Sam’s entire focus turn towards him, but to Sam’s credit he played it pretty cool. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Something Lucifer told him back when they were stuck in the other world. Something about you.”

Dean’s eyes were on the road, but he could feel the tension between them ratchet up. Not surprising. Lucifer was a sore subject, to say the least.

Sam’s voice was strained. “And what’s that?”

“He said there’s a spell on you that’ll make you obey me.”

Sam laughed, the tension between them melting away. “What? That’s ridiculous.”

Dean tried to grin. “Right?”

Sam’s grin was easy, his posture relaxed. Dean knew when his little brother was lying, and this wasn’t it. Dean felt himself relax. It was a ridiculous idea, anyway. Lucifer was off his damned rocker. It wasn’t like the devil lying would be out of character. Maybe he’d been trying to pull one over on Michael, for whatever reason. Either way, there was no way he was right about this.

But he had to be sure.

“Roll down your window.”

They were driving through the Midwest during a late fall cold snap. The Impala’s heater was chugging along low, keeping them warm. Sam ran hot, but it was still too cold to want a window open at sixty miles per hour.

“What?” Sam asked.

“You heard me.”

Sam laughed, but there was tension again, Dean could tell. “You having hot flashes?”

A decent attempt at deflection, Dean had to give him that.

“Roll down your window, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes and reached over, cranking the window halfway down. “That better? You done with your power trip? I don’t know what you were hoping to prove...”

“Shut up.”

Sam’s tirade cut off abruptly.

“You can roll up the window.”

Silently, Sam did so. Dean chanced a glance over, but Sam’s face was turned away.

“I don’t know how this happened. Hell, I don’t even really know what happened. But we’re gonna fix it, Sammy.”

 

* * *

 

Dean’s first instinct was to research. Sam was the one who got a hard-on for old books, but Dean was no slouch in the research department. With the Men of Letters resources at their disposal it was easier now than ever before.

Besides, he was more than happy to have something to focus on that wasn’t Michael.

Sam knew what he was doing, but he didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t really help him either. Sometimes Sam would stop by the corner of the archives that Dean had commandeered for the task and give him a look that was entirely inscrutable. Dean had always been confident in his ability to read Sam like a book, even when Sam was keeping secrets. But whether it was part of the spell or something else, he couldn’t get a read on Sam about this.

It was infuriating.

Dean considered asking some of the other hunters for help. But whatever else he knew about this spell, the one thing he knew for sure was that it was a weakness. It chafed to reveal any of their weaknesses to people he barely knew. This wasn’t really their Bobby or their Charlie. And everyone else, like Cas or Mom, had other fish to fry. Michael and monsters.

So for a few weeks he did the research thing.

Nada.

Sure, there were some promising leads. A couple spells to compel obedience. But they were the kind to turn the victims into total zombies. Sam was a lot of things, but he definitely still had a mind of his own.

So Dean slowly came to the realization that he’d have to call in an expert.

It wasn’t a decision he relished.

His first hope was Max Banes. But Max had been pretty far off the grid the past couple of years. And while he was a skilled witch, he was still pretty young. Plus most of his skill was with white magic. Even without knowing anything about the spell, Dean was sure it wasn’t pretty.

So while Dean would’ve preferred a hunter, he was left with one obvious choice:

Rowena.

He waffled for a bit. Yeah, there was probably no other witch on Earth who knew as much about dark magic. But she was just as liable to use whatever she found against them. What if she figured out a way to weaponized this weakness? After some careful observation Dean was pretty sure that Sam was only compelled to obey his orders, but it wasn’t a sure bet.

Still, she seemed to have a soft spot for Sam. Dean didn’t get it and he definitely didn’t like it, but if it helped his brother he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

 

* * *

 

Dean arranged for a meet up on the way back from another hunt with Sam. He could’ve brought her to the bunker, but that would’ve raised more questions from the team than he wanted to answer. Instead Dean drove them to the location she’d picked out—which turned out to be an upscale hotel bar.

“What are we doing here, Dean?”

“Meeting someone. Come on.”

Sam got out of the car and followed him in. It was only after they’d entered the cocktail bar that he realized he’d given his brother an order. Crap. He needed to start paying attention to that.

Rowena was seated in a tall, padded booth, her finger running around the rim of her Manhattan. Maybe it was a Rob Roy. Was that racist?

“Hello, boys,” she said as they approached.

Dean slid into the booth across from her, but Sam remained standing, glaring at his brother.

“What’s this about, Dean?”

“You know what,” Dean snapped back. He really didn’t want to hash this out in a bar, and especially not in front of Rowena. “Sit down.”

Sam glared at him, but did as he said. Of course he did, he didn’t have a choice. Dean felt a pang of guilt, but it wasn’t like he was asking Sam to do anything horrible. Skipping ahead to the part where Sam listened to him was for the greater good.

Rowena had definitely picked up on some of what was going on, if her amused look was anything to go by. “My, my, what has your knickers in a twist, Samuel?”

Dean jumped in. “Sam’s been cursed.”

Rowena didn’t seem particularly shocked. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. We need your help to figure out how to undo it.”

She took a long sip from her drink. “And what’s in it for me?”

Dean was being swiftly reminded of why he hated working with the witch. “Our undying gratitude,” he drawled.

Another long sip. “Hmm… pass.”

“What?” It shouldn’t have been a surprise, of course, but it still caught Dean off guard. She’d been pretty cooperative lately. Of course, that had been when Sam was the one asking for her help. Dean tried for a slightly more consolatory tone. “We’ll owe you one.”

“The way I see it, you two already owe me several favors.”

Anger rushed in, hot and quick. Dean had never wanted to work with her in the first place. Sam had been the one to let her get her powers back and they’d been nice enough to write off her flambéing pharma executives last year. She couldn’t just turn them down like this. “How about this: you help us and I don’t fill you full of witch-killing bullets.”

But far from instilling fear in the witch, she only relaxed further into the soft leather of the booth. “Only, that’s not exactly a threat, now is it? We all know that you’re not the one who kills me.”

“Oh, yeah?” They’d see about that. “Sam, take your gun out and point it at Rowena.”

“Dean!” Sam protested.

Dean glanced over at him, ignoring the scandalized look. “Do it!”

Sam’s lips pressed together and his hands bunched into fists, which he pressed to the tops of his thighs. His body was taught, a solid line of tension. Dean hadn’t seen him fight the curse this much before. But it was only seconds before a shudder went through him and his entire body loosened up. He reached behind himself, unsheathing his Taurus, and set it on the table, barrel pointed at Rowena, his hand resting on it almost casually.

 “Interesting,” Rowena said. She tilted her head in curiosity. “Put the gun away, Sam.”

Sam’s hand remained still.

Dean leaned forward. “So, will you help us?”

Rowena never took her eyes off Sam. “Let’s take this up to my room.”

 

* * *

 

After they settled into Rowena’s well-appointed suite Dean explained what he knew. Which wasn’t much more than Sam appeared to be cursed. He didn’t know how or why or who, but he knew the effects.

Sam sat stoically by as Dean explained. He was pissed. Even if Dean couldn’t read his brother like a book, right Sam was sending off ‘I’m pissed off’ signals that could be picked up from space. Which, whatever, fair. It was a jerk move using the spell like that. But it worked, Rowena was helping them now, so he couldn’t exactly feel too sorry about it.

Rowena for her part was inscrutable. She waited until Dean was finished before she spoke. “So you’re saying Sam obeys anything you say?”

“Well, any orders.”

“But he won’t tell you anything.”

Dean shook his head. “I think it’s part of the spell.”

“Is he unable or does he deflect?”

That caught Dean a bit off guard and he thought back on what he knew. “Deflect.” He hadn’t considered that the spell could do that. He just figured that Sam was embarrassed or upset or didn’t want to deal with it. He glanced over at Sam, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. Dean hadn’t been able to figure out why Sam wasn’t helping him try to fix the curse, but this could explain it.

“Have you tried ordering the information out of him?” Rowena asked, breaking Dean out of his thoughts.

“…No?”

She gave him a smug look which, sure, he probably deserved. It did seem like an obvious solution. So sue him, he hadn’t been very focused on how to use this curse to his advantage.

Not much, anyway.

Rowena waved a hand at Sam in a clear ‘what are you waiting for’ gesture. Sam, for his part, had finally looked up from staring at his hands. His face was a mask of trepidation, but now Dean knew couldn’t trust that. That could be the curse.

There was some apprehension crawling under Dean’s skin as well. He wasn’t sure he was going to like the answers he’d get. But that wasn’t anything new in his life. So he did what Dean Winchester always did: ran full bore at the thing that terrified him.

“Sam, tell me about the curse.”

There was a flicker of a smile across Sam’s face and he opened his mouth to respond.

And that’s when the screaming started.

Sam clutched at his hair, fists pressed against his temples. His eyes were squeezed shut and he hunched down in his chair.

And he was still screaming.

“Shit!” Dean slid off his chair onto his knees next to his brother, a hand pressed to Sam’s back, the other on his knee. “Sam, stop!”

Sam’s screams abruptly cut off but the rest of his body didn’t relax. His mouth gaped open silently, not even a gasp or breath making it through the pain.

“Cancel the order!” Rowena snapped.

“Sam, don’t tell me anything. You hear me? Stop trying to tell me about the curse.”

Sam slumped forward as his entire body relaxed. Dean was only barely able to support him enough to keep him seated in the chair.

“Sammy? You okay?” Dean tried to duck his head to meet Sam’s eyes.

Sam nodded, still breathing heavily.

“Well, that was… instructive,” Rowena said.

Dean turned to glare at her, one hand still fisted into Sam’s jacket. “Did you know that would happen?”

“I suspected it was a possibility.”

“It’s fine,” Sam said, just as Dean was working his way up to being truly pissed off. “I’m fine.”

Unfortunately, his brother’s martyr complex didn’t help Dean’s anger. “No, Sam, it’s not fine.”

Sam finally raised his head enough to roll his eyes, which mollified Dean a bit.

Dean took a deep, steadying breath. He fussed over Sam a bit more as a cover before backing off. “So did you learn anything from that?”

“Some,” Rowena admitted. “I think that there are two spells on Sam. At least.”

Dean turned back to Sam, trying to see if he could read the truth of that on Sam’s face, but he was just as unreadable as he had been regarding this spell.

“I can try and decipher which spells they are. If I recognize them, that will give us a starting point to breaking the curses.”

“Okay,” Dean said with a nod. “What do we need to do?”

Rowena tapped at her chin with a single elegant finger. “I think we should have Sam lie down on the bed.” She caught Dean’s look and smirked. “I promise his virtue is safe.”

Dean clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Alright, you heard the lady, Sammy.”

Sam looked up at him with apprehension.

Dean, of course, didn’t really feel as enthused about the idea as he was projecting, which was probably blatantly obvious to Sam. But they didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“Dean, I don’t know…” Sam said, keeping his voice low. Probably trying to spare Rowena’s feelings. As if she had any.

“You got a better idea?”

Apprehension turned to stubbornness.

Dean really didn’t have time for this. “Sam, get on the bed.”

Sam sent him a pissy glare, but he complied. Dean caught sight of Rowena as he watched Sam trudge over to the enormous bed. She was giving him a look calculated enough to set off alarm bells.

He got it. He knew enough about the spell to know that using it against Sam was a dick move. But they were going to get here anyway. He didn’t really feel like wasting time they could be devoting to actually curing Sam. Plus, who knew if it was the spell keeping him from complying in the first place.

When Sam’s long body was finally stretched across the expensive bedspread Rowena moved to stand next to him. She raised her hands over him. “This shouldn’t hurt, Sam.” It almost sounded gentle. She really did have a sweet spot for him. Trust Sam to make friends with an evil witch he was destined to kill.

Dean stood at the foot of the bed to watch. His gun sat heavy at the small of his back. Sure, he apparently couldn’t kill Rowena, but he was sure a bullet or two might slow her down if she tried anything funny.

Her eyes glowed purple and she began sweeping her hands through the air over Sam’s body. There was a wince from Sam when she reached his head. And he shifted a bit when it passed over his stomach, but otherwise he didn’t seem to be in any pain.

After several long minutes the glow in her eyes faded.

“Well, there is some good news and some bad news.”

“Hit us with the bad news first,” Dean said.

Rowena sat on the bed, next to Sam’s hip, as Sam levered himself up into a sitting position. “There are indeed two spells on Sam. The obedience spell is like nothing I’ve seen before. What’s more, it’s tied to his soul. I’m not even sure if removal is possible.”

Well that was a kick in the teeth. “You said there was some good news?”

“The other spell is a concealment spell and that one I do recognize. It will take some time to gather the ingredients and find the exact counter before I can break it, but it’s possible.” She turned towards Sam. “My hope is that after removal Sam can tell us more about the primary curse.”

Dean tried to read Sam’s thoughts on the matter, but once again his face was carefully blank.

 

* * *

 

Rowena sent them away. She promised to let them know when she had the counter-curse ready, along with any ingredients she’d need to pilfer from the Men of Letters cache. She didn’t expect that it’d take more than a few weeks.

The drive back to the bunker was awkward. Sam was doing the silent treatment thing. Dean was trying to be accommodating.

A couple hours of silence later and Dean could feel the guilt start to creep in.

“Look, Sam, I know I’ve been a jerk about the spell.” He waited, but Sam remained quiet. “I’m just trying to help.”

The silence continued on. He chanced a look over, but again Sam’s face was unreadable. It occurred to Dean that Sam probably couldn’t talk about it anyway, because of the other spell on him.

Dean reached over and gave Sam’s knee a good slap. “We’re gonna fix this, Sammy.”

The silence chased them down the highway.

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take Rowena long to get back to them.

They met up again outside the bunker. Rowena had found a cozy little abandoned warehouse not too far away from Lebanon. Actually, Sam had already known the place. When Rowena had called them up to tell them she was ready she’d said to tell Sam she was at the ‘usual location’.

It put Dean’s hackles up, but he was somewhat mollified by Sam rolling his eyes at the theatrics. It was probably just Rowena baiting them. Probably.

In any case Sam directed Dean a couple towns away to a long-abandoned building. Among the copious graffiti Dean could pick out the remnants of cancelled warding sigils, hinting at its use by hunters. By Sam, probably. Dean would recognize his brother’s handwriting anywhere, even in two-foot tall spray paint.

Sam was dragging his feet so Dean pushed him forward. That was how he felt the shudder go through Sam as they stepped through the doorway of the warehouse.

Dean stepped around his ginormous lump of a brother and saw that Rowena had the spell all set up. She’d etched out a complicated circle of symbols, ringed by candles. He didn’t see anything that should’ve set Sam off—Dean knew more than a few of the things that bothered Sam from long observation—so Dean shot him a quick look. Sam only shook his head in response.

Dean just chalked it up as one more Sam Winchester mystery.

“This looks complicated,” Dean said as they approached.

“I’m sure for you it would be,” was Rowena’s smug reply.

“What do I need to do?” Sam asked, sounding weirdly apprehensive.

Rowena gestured to the circle. “I’ll have you sit in the middle there. Did you bring what I asked for?”

Sam handed over the duffel, which contained a couple mason jars with some of the ingredients Rowena had asked for. Dean had let Sam handle that. Herbs were one thing, but he could have done without knowing that they had a supply of dried sheep eyeballs.

“This is safe, right?” Dean asked.

“Oh, _now_ you’re asking,” Rowena snarked.

Sam snorted and Dean glared at both of them.

Rowena was busy opening up the jars of ingredients and adding them to a brass bowl. “It’s safe enough.”

Dean did not like the sound of that, but a quick glance over at Sam seemed to indicate that Sam didn’t mind much. Dean gave him a look—‘ _you sure?’_ Sam shrugged and moved to take a seat at the center of the spell work. In the middle of the intricate pattern was an empty circle, a couple feet across. Sam folded up his sasquatch legs and sat in the blank space, looking entirely too much like a kindergartener waiting for story time. He also looked a bit like story time might literally blow up in his face.

Rowena set her bowl down at the edge of the outer circle. “Are you ready? This may hurt.”

“I thought you said it was safe!” Dean protested.

Rowena gave him a scathing look. “Safe is not the same as painless.”

“I’m ready,” Sam said, interrupting their spat. His expression could best be described as ‘grim’.

Beyond the edge of the spell circle Dean found himself pacing.

“Bit overbearing, isn’t he?” Rowena asked Sam.

“Hilarious,” Dean drawled, but he couldn’t complain too much since the joke had gotten Sam to loosen up a bit. It irked him that they were so chummy.

Rowena waved a hand and the candles ringing the circle and tiny flames flared up on each.

She was reading off of a sheet of white printer paper that seemed out of place. Dean was used to faded manuscripts and aged parchment. The words sounded like Latin, though Dean was better at reading the language than understanding it.

He could tell when the spell peaked because Rowena’s voice began to escalate in volume. She waved a hand over the bowl of ingredients and it burst into a bright purple flame. She passed a hand through the fire and stepped into the spell circle, trailing sparks where her stilettos trod on the chalk lines. Her hand was wreathed in fire and she pressed it to Sam’s forehead with a final, shouted syllable.

The flames all went out.

Sam collapsed to the ground.

Dean was already moving, sliding to his knees next to his brother, fingers finding a steady pulse before moving to cradle his skull.

“That’s unexpected,” Rowena said, setting the bowl down as she knelt beside Dean.

“Did it work?”

She held a hand over Sam and her eyes lit briefly with purple light before she lowered her palm again. “It did, the spell is gone. This sometimes happens when you break a very powerful curse. Or a long-standing one.”

It was something Dean tried not to think about. He’d thrown himself at the process of solving the problem. Given Sam’s initial reluctance—and the later revelation that he was cursed not to reveal any information—Dean had set aside his questions.

Who cursed Sam? When?

How had Dean not known about it?

Now that they had one of the curses taken care of, he was looking forward to getting some answers from Sam.

It was only a minute later that Sam began to stir.

“Hey, hey, Sammy,” Dean definitely didn’t coo.

Sam’s eyes slit open and just from the scrunch of his forehead Dean could tell he had a killer headache. But being a Winchester he pushed through. Dean helped as he struggled up into a seated position.

“How are you feeling?” Dean asked.

“I’m good,” Sam lied, but Dean let it slide. “Did it work?”

“We think so. How about we test it out?”

Sam nodded. He took a deep, steadying breath. Long seconds stretched between them while Dean tried to be patient. Finally, in a quiet voice, Sam said, “I’m cursed.”

Relief washed over Dean but it was nothing compared to what came over Sam. His brother sagged bonelessly against him, a blinding grin stretched across his face.

Sam looked up at Rowena. “Thank you.”

She waved off his gratitude and began packing up her supplies.

They should go back to the bunker, head somewhere private and comfortable, but Dean was brimming with questions that wouldn’t be denied. “Sam, you gotta tell me about the curse. Who did this to you?”

Sam went pale, but fortunately the curse didn’t seem to interpret that as an order, because he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, Dean. Please, I’ll tell you what I know about the spell, but just drop it.”

Dean let himself be mollified by that. For now.

Sam was pushing himself up and Dean helped him stagger to his feet and over to a low table of sorts to lean on. He still seemed a little woozy. “The spell wasn’t Latin,” Sam said, his focus entirely on Rowena. “I caught a couple of the repeated words. ‘Sangnitah’ is the only one I’m pretty sure was a whole word. There were a lot of repeated phonemes: ‘kahd’, ‘shega’. I didn’t get a good look at the sigils it used.”

“It’s not much to go on,” Rowena pointed out.

“Even for the greatest witch of our time?”

She smiled, shark-like. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Samuel.”

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” Dean said. “Come on, we’re heading back now.”

Sam was still a little wobbly on his feet, but getting steadier. He probably didn’t need Dean supporting him, but he didn’t push him away, either. Dean helped him into the Impala and leaned in over the open doorway. “Just tell me on thing, Sam. Whoever did this to you, are they still a threat?”

Sam stalled for a moment. “They’re dead.” He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

Dean was smart enough to recognize the deflection, but it was enough knowing that whatever monster had done this wouldn’t be a problem. He shut the door, circled around to the driver’s side, and pointed them towards home.

 

* * *

 

Things were better without the secret between them. They weren’t crying and hugging it out or anything, but when Dean accidentally told Sam to ‘shut up’ at least Sam was able to smack him upside the head and get the order cancelled.

It had taken a weight off of Sam’s shoulders that Dean hadn’t even realized was there. And, more disturbing, one that he wasn’t sure how long it had been weighing on Sam. He was trying to give his little brother some space, but patience really wasn’t one of his strongest virtues.

Rowena was chasing down her own leads, but with Sam’s knowledge of the curse he and Dean were digging once again through the bunker’s resources, narrowing down the scope. Sam told him before they got back that he’d tried to look up information on his own, back when they first moved into the bunker. Given that his brother had spent years going through the archives here Dean wasn’t very bullish on their chances of finding anything.

Of course, he had ulterior motives for the research binge. Primarily it kept Sam from wallowing. But getting Sam distracted by research was one of the best ways to get him talking.

“How long have you had the curse?”

Of course, it wasn’t fool-proof.

“Drop it, Dean.”

But Dean couldn’t. “Michael said Lucifer told him about the curse.”

It was a question Dean kept coming back to. Dean had to assume that Sammy hadn’t gotten chatty with the devil in the past few years. He’d avoided thinking about what it meant when Sam wasn’t being forthcoming with any answers, but now he couldn’t stop himself now.

Sam was staring intently at the heavy tome spread open on the desk in front of him.

“How’d Lucifer find out, Sam?”

Dean didn’t like talking to Sam about Lucifer. On their list of sore subjects the devil ranked near the top.

He kept up the stare down until Sam responded quietly: “You know how.”

And yeah, now he did. Dean remembered the horrifying feeling of having his memories, his private thoughts, rifled through.

“When he possessed you? That was like ten years ago, man. You’ve been cursed that long?”

Sam’s silence was answer enough.

A lot had happened in those ten years, and not all of them were Dean’s finer moments. This means Sam had been cursed through when Dean had borne the Mark of Cain. He remembered the rage of those months like a physical thing, rising up to choke him, to steal over his mind and leaving bruises and body counts behind.

He and Sam had spent a lot of that time at odds. It was long enough ago that Dean couldn’t even remember the specifics of most of their fights.

“It wasn’t the whole time, you know,” Sam said. At Dean’s raised eyebrows he elaborated. “I figured out that the spell was connected to my soul because it wasn’t there when I was Soulless.”

“Great,” Dean said in perfect deadpan. “The one time it would’ve been useful.”

Sam’s face shuttered and Dean mentally kicked himself. Smooth move.

“You find any other ways to suppress the curse?” Dean asked, trying to reroute the conversation back onto safer tracks. He was expecting to hear a ‘no’, so it was a shock when Sam’s face said clearly that was something, before Sam shuts down entirely. “You did! You gotta let me know, man.”

“No, Dean, it’s not useful. Trust me.”

“I can’t help you beat this if I don’t have all the facts.” Dean said, perfectly reasonably. And he wasn’t lying, it would be helpful, but most of all he wanted to know. Hoped that there was something he could do to help in the meantime.

Hoped that there had been something to help Sam all those years before.

“No. Drop it.”

Dean folded his arms in front of himself. “Tell me.”

Sam glared at him, pressing his mouth together.

That was fine. Dean could wait.

The spell did its work and Sam spit out the answer. “Demon blood.”

Dean’s stomach dropped as Sam pushed away from the table so hard his chair fell over and skittered across the floor. He stormed off. Dean let him go.

Crap.

Dean still had a hard time thinking of those dark months after returning from hell. He hated remembering the secrets and anger and fighting. He hated Ruby’s smug smile as she led his brother around by the nose. Sam’s pained screams as withdrawal tore him up in Bobby’s panic room still haunted Dean’s worst nights.

He hadn’t had time—or desire, really—to think back through all their many disagreements and try to figure out which ones might have been affected by the curse. But the miserable period just before Sam released Lucifer had stood out as a time when Sam couldn’t possibly have had the curse on him, because he definitely hadn’t listened to Dean at all.

And now he knew why.

It only raised more questions, though. And more concerns. He still had no idea how long the curse had been on Sam. And given that Sam was now pissed at him, he probably wouldn’t be finding out any time soon.

He knew he shouldn’t have done that, shouldn’t have used the curse on Sam like that. It was a dick move, even if Sam was usually too obstinate for his own good. But this time Sam was right. That wasn’t a viable solution. Even if this curse was dangerous, demon blood was worse.

He had to hope that Rowena could find a better solution.

 

* * *

 

And she did. Sort of.

They were in the car when the witch called, on the way to a salt and burn. Sam put the call on speaker.

“Hey, what’s up?”

She didn’t waste any time: “I found a way to break the curse.”

“That’s great,” Sam said.

“What’s the catch?” Dean asked, right on his heels.

Sam shot him a look but Dean wasn’t about to pretend like breaking curses didn’t have a long history of unintended consequences.

“I’ve sent you what I know. You already have the hardest part, which is that both parties must agree to breaking the curse.”

“Yeah, we’re good there,” Dean said.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t done. “But the spell is tied to the soul. The concern is that any attempt to remove it could damage your soul.”

“Well that doesn’t sound great,” Dean drawled.

Sam glared at him. “How risky is it?”

“It depends on how long the spell has been active.”

Sam had his lips stubbornly pressed together so Dean replied. “Sam’s keeping that close to the vest, but at least ten years.”

“That’s… incredibly unfortunate.”

“How bad?” Sam asked.

There was a pause on the other end. “After ten years, the curse would be more indelibly tied into the victim’s soul. Every year that this curse remains, removal becomes more difficult. And it increases the risk of backlash against the other soul tied to the curse.”

“You mean against Dean?”

“Yes.”

The car fell silent, the only sound the whir of tires on asphalt.

“Thanks for finding this,” Sam said, always the polite one. “We’ll have to think about it.”

“I will let you know if I find anything more promising, but I’m not counting on it. Finding even this was a miracle.”

“Noted,” Dean grumbled.

Sam exchanged some more pleasantries—which sounded suspiciously like flirting. Dean was going to need to talk to him about that. But then the call was ended and Sam was looking over the spell on his tablet.

“Is it doable?” Dean asked.

“The spell is actually pretty simple. Well, as simple as ancient Sumerian ever gets. We’d need to use our blood, but there aren’t any elaborate sigils or anything. Just an incantation.” Sam looked thoughtful.

“So what do you think?”

Sam sat for a long time. Long enough that Dean was starting to assume he wasn’t going to answer. But finally he spoke up. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been too long. And I don’t want to risk damaging my soul over this. Or yours. We know how bad that could be.”

Dean nodded gravely. “For what it’s worth, I agree.”

Sam gave him another look, this time hard to read. Dean tried to puzzle it out, but Sam was better at keeping secrets than he’d ever imagined. And sure, a curse had helped out with that, but it threw off their whole vibe to know that something this big had gone unnoticed. And now Sam was indecipherable. It grated on Dean.

He would be happy to have the spell removed. It wasn’t really fun for Dean to have to tiptoe around what he said to his brother. Huge swaths of English were suddenly off limits. He’d almost told Sam to bit him the other day before catching himself. Not a pleasant thought.

But at the same time he’d lived through Sam being soulless once already. He’d had his own soul messed up enough to become a demon. He had no desire to deal with a repeat of those incidents.

They’d just have to make the best of it.

 

* * *

 

It was one of Sam’s little hunters who called the information in.

Monsters outside Phoenix. Bodies drained of blood. Typical vamp M.O. But the bodies were showing up during the day.

It triggered a memory from Dean’s time with Michael. He really didn’t want to remember it. Everything about it felt slimy—the memory of the archangel moving his body, the feel of Michael’s grace moving through him as he drained it to power up the monsters. But he pushed through.

And because of it, he knew that his instinct about vampires was right. Michael had used his body to juice up some vampires. Phoenix wasn’t their normal hunting grounds—too damn sunny—but maybe that wasn’t in issue if they were souped up on archangel grace cocktails.

Dean hustled them out of the bunker and onto the road.

“Super-Vamps, Sammy,” he said, forcing levity into his voice. “Should be fun.”

“Yeah,” Sam replied absently, paging through something on his tablet.

“Do your minions know where the nest is?”

Sam swiped at something on the screen. “They’ve got some ideas, a rough area—wait, did you just call them my minions?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t.”

“Make me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean cringed as he replayed that in his head. “On second thought, don’t.” Too many idioms doubled as orders. It was annoying.

It was a long drive, but at least headed south and out of winter. They hit a bit of snow in the mountains, but Phoenix was very livable early December. Dean was going to have to see about getting them a chapterhouse here they could winter in.

Not that he was going to suggest it anytime soon. Sam was already getting on his case for being old. He wasn’t even forty yet.

The team they met in Phoenix was just three hunters. Dean didn’t know any of them that well, so he let Sam handle the debrief. Since it was getting close to dinner Dean went out to pick up some grub for everyone.

They needed to be careful on this hunt. Sam had a standing order that no hunters engage with any monster if it was acting out of the usual. The djinn they’d encountered in Oklahoma had said the monsters were under orders to take out as many hunters as they could. Sam wasn’t willing to risk his people. It was a stance Dean agreed with. He’d always known Sam was a great hunter, but once he’d gotten over the shock of seeing the bunker filled with strangers Dean had come to appreciate that he was a pretty damn good leader.

But now that Sam and Dean were in town they had to deal with this problem, hard and fast. No mercy. Michael’s monsters were dangerous.

And Dean was responsible for all of it.

He grabbed a couple of take-out pizzas and headed back to the motel.

They’d rented out a block of rooms, but Sam and Dean were sharing, like always. Dean was glad. He didn’t really want to have to do the small talk thing with the hunter babies. He knocked on the other doors and handed them each their food before retreating into his room.

Sam was at the table in front of his laptop, the furrow between his brows deep enough that Dean knew something was wrong.

“What’s up?”

“How sure are you that these are vamps?” Sam asked.

Dean threw the pizza on the table and grabbed a slice with everything on it. “Pretty damn sure. I saw it.”

“And you’re sure it was Phoenix?”

Well, no. It wasn’t like Dean remembered driving there, after all. Michael flew. He didn’t remember much in the way of landmarks. But it was a big city in a desert with blood-sucking monsters. That wasn’t too common. “Yeah. Why?”

“I don’t know, just a feeling. I was reading through the coroner’s report and it’s not adding up.”

“Hit me,” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of pizza.

Sam leveled an exasperated look at him, but of course he understood what Dean said. He always did. “The bodies are drained of blood, sure, typical vamp stuff. But they also have multiple bite marks, which is weird.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe the nest is sharing.” It was unusual, but not unheard of, especially if they kept the victims as blood bags.

“Yeah,” Sam said, completely unconvinced. “I dunno. I wish I’d gotten a look at the bodies.”

“Kinky.”

“Shut up.”

Dean cackled and grabbed another piece of pizza.

Bodies had been showing up in daylight, but vamps were still usually nocturnal. They assumed that the victims had been taken at night, so they’d opted to try and find the nest that evening.

Or, that was the plan.

“I’m still not so sure about this,” Sam said.

Dean was busy checking over the weapons, testing the edge of the machete blades. “Yeah, I know Sam, weird bite marks. But these are super-vamps. We don’t know how they act anyway.”

“All the more reason to be cautious. We should wait, get more information.”

“Yeah, well, while you’re being cautious people are out there being killed. That what you want?” It was a low blow.

Sam was smart enough not to rise to the bait. “Going in half-cocked isn’t going to help anyone.”

Dean smirked. “Aw, Sammy. You know I’m always fully cocked.”

“I’m serious, Dean.”

Dean dropped the grin. “So am I. I’m not playing around here, Sam. I’m not letting other people die because your spider-sense is tingling.” The sun usually kept vamps away from this area, which meant they were only there because Michael powered them up. There had been eight victims so far. Eight people dead who might have lived if Michael hadn’t been running free. Eight families in mourning.

He couldn’t just let that slide. He wasn’t going to accept one more person dying because Dean had said ‘yes.’

Sam was clearly gearing up for a fight about this and Dean needed to shut it down now. “Sam, we’re going. We’re gonna take down this nest, and that’s final.”

“That’s final?” Sam echoed. “Really, Dean?”

“I can make it final.”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut on whatever rebuttal he’d been working up to. There was a moment of hurt and part of Dean wanted to take it back. But Sam locked it up again, his expression smoothing out into something coolly neutral.

Sam ducked his head, grabbing his gun up from the table and settling it at the small of his back. “Let’s go, then.”

Dean hung back as Sam rallied the troops. There were two possible nest sites that the hunters had scoped out, based on where the victims had been found and likely buildings. Dean and two of the hunters would be taking one while Sam and some dude named Riley took the other.

They headed out. Dean took the Impala. The guy in the passenger seat was named Andre, the girl in back was Tasha. Dean hated going into hunts with strangers. Even good hunters could be unpredictable. Sam vouched for them, so he trusted they wouldn’t be totally useless, but there was a reason he and Sam were splitting up, ensuring that each team had at least one experienced hunter.

The building they arrived at was a run-down warehouse because of course it was.

And it was a bust.

They searched the place from top to bottom, but it was empty. The only danger there was from the tetanus they’d get if they touched anything.

As they’re heading back to the car Dean pulled out his cell and dialed Sam. No answer.

It didn’t mean much; Sam usually put his phone on silent or turned it off on hunts to avoid getting outed if he was going for stealth. They all three of them piled in the car and turned it towards the other possible nest location. Dean tried Sam’s cell again on the way, no luck.

Sam was thirty-five damn years old and the second best hunter on the planet. Dean really shouldn’t be worried.

He pressed down on the gas.

The other nest was an abandoned church, a big brick structure surrounded by chain-link fence. The Impala’s headlights swept over cracked asphalt and stopped on Riley’s car. Sam’s broad back was bent over the open trunk, but he stood up as Dean shifted the Impala into park.

“Way to pick up your phone,” Dean said as he got out. “Where’s your buddy?”

Sam jerked a thumb back at the building. “In there, finishing up.”

“You guys get them?”

Sam grinned. “Yeah, all taken care of.” He turned back towards the trunk.

The moment he was turned away, Dean had his gun up and out. “Don’t move.”

‘Sam’ turned back around, raising his hands in supplication. “Woah, dude. What the hell?”

“Dean?” Tasha asked from next to him. She sounded unsure. Dean couldn’t really blame her. She wouldn’t know.

“It’s not Sam.” Dean didn’t take his eyes off of whatever it was.

The face in front of him looked just like Sam did when he was confused and upset, but Dean knew better. These other hunters didn’t know Sam like he did.

There were a couple options. Possession, some sort of shapeshifter. Without dropping his gun, Dean reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out his flask. ‘Sam’ caught it one-handed. “Holy water, really?”

“Do it.”

Slowly, ‘Sam’ unscrewed the cap, pouring it over his other hand. No reaction. Could be a powerful demon, but odds better that this wasn’t Sam’s body. The flask was silver, too. Probably not a shapeshifter.

Unless it had been juiced up by Michael.

“Get on your knees.” Dean ordered.

“What? No way, dude.”

For a moment it rang true. Sam was a stubborn son of a bitch when he wanted to be. But only a moment later reality reasserted itself. Sam shouldn’t be able to say no.

“Kneel,” Dean said again. A command.

A shapeshifter would probably known, would’ve downloaded Sam’s memories.

He could see ‘Sam’ contemplate whether or not to comply, the expression close enough to Sam’s that Dean could read it just fine.

 _Multiple bite marks_.

“It’s a ghoul!”

‘Sam’ dropped the act and charged, inhumanly fast, even more so than ghouls normally were.

Of course, grace-powered super-ghouls. Fun.

Dean dodged to the side, tossing his gun away as he grabbed for his machete. One of the other hunters opened fire, but it didn’t even slow the beast down. It wouldn’t, not unless they got in a headshot.

It got closer and Dean swung at its head, but it blocked with one of Sam’s long arms. Dean’s hand rang with the impact as the ghoul swung a fist at Dean, who only barely managed to avoid the brunt of it. It struck a glancing blow, enough to throw his balance off, and he ended up sprawled across the concrete.

The ghoul advanced.

Dean was tensing to roll to the side when there was a meaty _thwack_ and Sam’s—the ghoul’s—head was separated neatly from its body, rolling off his neck and falling between Dean’s legs. Dean scrambled back as the large body came timbering down after.

Andre stood in the empty space where the ghoul had been, his machete still dripping blood. His eyes were wide and he looked ready to shake apart at any moment.

Adrenaline from the fight was still pumping through Dean’s veins, but he tried to shake it off. He needed to focus. “Thanks for the save, man.”

“I thought we were hunting vamps,” Tasha said, hands tight around her own machete.

Dean groaned as he pushed himself off the ground. He was getting too old for this. “Sam thought something about the victims was off. Looks like he was right.”

“So where is he?” Tasha asked. Andre still looked shaky.

“Good question.” The big church still looked just as abandoned as it had. If there were more ghouls inside, they were keeping their heads down. And given the gunshots, Dean’s team had lost the element of surprise.

Fine, then. Dean was happy to go in big and dumb.

“Come on.” He picked his gun up off the ground where he’d thrown it and checked it over before holstering it at the small of his back. The machete was going to be more useful here. But Dean also had a better idea. He opened the trunk of the Impala and grabbed out his shotgun. He handed a second one to Tasha, since Andre seemed handier with the machete thus far.

Andre and Tasha hung back slightly as Dean climbed the few steps up to the church’s front door. The building had been chained and locked, but the chain swung free now, having been cut at some point. Dean pulled open the heavy wooden door and clicked on his flashlight.

The smell hit him first, wafting out into the warm night air. Death had an unmistakable stench, especially in a place as warm as Arizona. Dean gagged a bit before steeling his stomach and focusing on breathing through his mouth.

It was also a little reassuring. Vamps liked their meat alive and kicking. Sam would’ve known right away that something was up.

Nothing jumped out at him immediately, so he edged through the gap, every sense on high alert. Andre and Tasha followed him in.

The lobby of the church was littered with bones and body parts, gore smeared across the floor and up the walls.

“Jesus Christ,” Andre whispered. “Holy shit.”

Dean recognized the panic creeping into his tone and knew he had to head it off before it grew into a problem. “Button it up. No time for freaking out.”

They made their way passed the empty baptismal font and towards the doors into the main chapel. Dean glanced back at his team. Andre looked pale, but Tasha was holding it together. At least neither had run off. He’d take what he could get at this point.

There weren’t many other places for the ghouls to hide, so sneaking in wasn’t going to work. Dean was going in hard and fast. He needed to find Sam.

He held up three fingers, then dropped it down to two, then one.

And kicked open the door.

 

* * *

 

“Fucking hate ghouls,” Dean said as he wound gauze around Sam’s arm, covering up the neat row of stitches he’d just put in.

“Not going to disagree with you there,” Sam said, suppressing a wince.

“They sure seem to like you, eh, Sammy?” It wasn’t much of a joke. Sam had a couple oozing bite wounds. Dean had forgone their usual whiskey and sprung for some actual antiseptic. Ghoul bites were nasty, fuckers never brushed their teeth. “We gotta get this curse off you.”

That got Sam’s attention. “What? No, Dean, we agreed…”

“We agreed that it’s dangerous.” Dean tied the gauze off and took a seat on the opposite motel bed. “But leaving it on is worse.”

Sam pulled on a shirt, wincing as he stretched his arms into the sleeves. “Dean, I know you made a  mistake, but it happens. I’m fine, Riley’s going to be fine. It worked out.”

“Yeah, mistakes happen, Sam, but that’s why I need you to be able to call me out when they do.” Dean wasn’t sure how he’d gotten it wrong; if Michael had left him false memories or if there really were altered vamps in another southwestern city, but he couldn’t let it happen again. Couldn’t let anyone else get hurt.

“I do,” Sam insisted. “I always have. I’ve learned how to deal with the curse thing, to work around it.”

But Dean knew that wasn’t true. “It’s different now that I know, don’t pretend it’s not.”

Sam took a moment, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. “Sure, does a part of me wish you’d be a little less of a dick about it? Yeah. But I can deal with that.”

“Sam…”

“You don’t get it, Dean.” Sam was doing the puppy dog eye thing, entire face pleading to be understood. “I’ve been dealing with this for… a long time.”

“All the more reason to fix it!”

“At what cost?”

That tripped Dean up for a moment. His first instinct was to say ‘who cares?’ Which wasn’t entirely true but it came close enough. Rowena’s warning only mentioned risks to either of them, no one else. As far as collateral damage went, that wasn’t bad. “Is that really what you’re worried about?”

“Rowena said breaking the curse could damage our souls. You remember me soulless. You really want to risk that?”

And, yeah, Dean did remember the douchebag version of Sam. But it was a decent reasoning. Still, something about it didn’t really add up.

Fortunately, Sam was kind enough to continue, his head ducked low as he stared at the ground. “You’ve seen what I’ve done, when I was free of the curse.”

Yeah, Dean had pieced that together. The demon blood shit, soullessness. Not some of Sam’s finer moments. Dean was about to ask Sam ‘so what’ when it really hit him what that meant.

The only times that Sam had been left entirely to his own devices, he’d nearly ended the world and then gotten a bunch of people killed, to say nothing of letting Dean get turned into a vampire. Still…

“Sam, those were some pretty fucked up extraneous circumstances.”

But Sam wouldn’t meet his eyes.

It wasn’t a huge surprise. Sam had a guilt complex the size of Texas. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t done some fucked up stuff before, but he’d also done more than almost anyone to atone for it. Dean had forgiven it years ago, even if Sam himself hadn’t.

Truth was, though, that maybe Dean hadn’t always been the best about communicating that. Dean didn’t do big elaborate apologies, not really his style. Most of his own grudges weren’t so much forgiven as faded away with time.

Sam had never been that way. Dad used to call him out on it, on bringing up all of the things Sam had ever perceived as slights. Sam held grudges. Or, he used to. In recent years Sam had been forgiving, almost to a fault. To the point that sometimes Dean got a little annoyed with him for it. Except, it seemed, when it came to himself.

So that was the plan, then. Build up Sammy’s confidence a little, get the spell taken off, kill Michael, live happily ever after.

Easy, right?

 

* * *

 

With Sam holding up any progress on the curse front, they turned their attention towards Michael. When Jack had been dying they’d gotten a tip off about his location and had been gearing up ever since. It took a while to get the pieces in place. Sam reluctantly pulled in Garth and Dean was more than happy to send Ketch on a wild good chase in Europe.

Dean tried not to think about Jack’s own spell, eating away at his soul to keep him alive. If Dean didn’t know for a fact that nothing happens for a reason, he’d think it was a little too on the nose. All three of them facing down threats to their immortal souls.

He figured it wasn’t helping Sam’s decision making, the reminder of how precarious a soul could be. Lily Sunder was proof of that.

So, in the meantime, Michael. Who had decided to set up shop only a stone’s throw away from the bunker, in Kansas City.

Between Garth as a spy on the inside and a lead on a method of exorcising Michael, they had the makings of a halfway decent plan, especially by their standards. Sam was running the show, and Dean backed his play. The kid was already a good leader, he just needed to learn to perform without the safety net.

Through Garth they got Kaia’s location, and from her they got the spear. A weapon that could hurt Michael, finally.

Sam had less success with the big magic exorcism egg—Dean knew the right name, but it was dumb anyway. Michael melted it. Worse, he took Jack.

Dean mostly cursed because Sam could’ve used the win, it wasn’t like he was surprised to see a plan go sideways. Sam, of course, had to go and pull a stupid-ass rescue by going in alone to get Jack. But that was the Winchester way. It worked, which was better than they usually got. If they were going up against Michael, at least they were more or less at full strength.

Impossible odds really did feel like home.

And finally—finally—Dean was going to put an end to the smug bastard who had used him.

It really was one of their better last-minute plans.

Michael’s current vessel was a woman, tanned and gorgeous. It was probably in his head that he could feel the energy pouring off of her. Spears weren’t Dean’s weapon of choice but he was holding his own. Managed to slice open a line on her arm.

He had the spear at Michael’s throat.

He’d done it.

His vision blurred.

He’d won.

Right?


	4. Chapter Three

Sam could tell the moment that Dean disappeared, swept under by Michael. Even before he turned around, minute changes in posture set alarm bells clanging in Sam’s head that This Wasn’t Dean.

He couldn’t help the “no” that escaped.

Dean was gone.

Michael was monologuing. Talking about their stupidity at not wondering why Michael had let Dean go. But they had wondered, and worried. Sam more than any of them. But what had it mattered in the face of having Dean back? Of course, they should have known. Nothing in their life fixes that easy.

Sam steeled himself. It was okay. They could still fix this. They had plans.

Michael held Dean’s hand up and Sam flinched at the snap of his fingers, expecting some new horror. Maybe Sam would explode, maybe Cas or Jack. Horror churned in his stomach.

But nothing much happened, at least not in this room, other than Dean’s clothes being replaced by Michael’s suit. Sam was smart enough to know that it didn’t mean Michael hadn’t done something else. He spared a thought for the people of the city, with monsters unleashed after them, but he had more pressing concerns.

Michael was still talking. Not really a surprise there. He’d always had an over-inflated sense of self-importance. He paused in his monologue long enough to clench his fist and pain ripped through Sam’s stomach. An old angel favorite. He could tell the same was happening to Cas and Jack on either side of him as they slumped to the floor in pain.

Sam ignored the pain, ignored Dean’s voice with Michael’s smarmy words. He used the hand he clutched to his stomach as cover to remove the bottle of holy oil. His other hand went to his lighter in his pocket.

Sam caught Cas’ eye and he knew the angel picked up on the plan when Cas launched himself at Michael. A distraction.

Sam flicked at the lighter, finally getting the rag to light on the Molotov cocktail when Michael’s voice cut through the adrenaline pounding in his ears.

“Sam, stop.”

And Sam did.

A wave of horror rolled through him, ice cold in his gut.

With a gesture Jack and Cas were both swept to opposite sides of the room, pinned to the walls there. Michael advanced on Sam.

Sam took a step back, but Michael only smiled, the smirk twisted on Dean’s face. “Freeze.”

Sam froze.

Michael stepped up and lifted the lit rag out of the bottle still clutched in Sam’s fist, discarding it on the floor where it sputtered pitifully.

“Do they know?” Michael asked. “Have you told Castiel and the Nephilim your shameful little secret?” He cocked his head to the side as he read Dean’s thoughts. “No, I see you haven’t. Pity.”

“Let them go,” Sam ground out through the terror clawing its way up his throat.

“I have no interest in them, not really. They’re weak. But you. I think you could be very useful.”

Sam didn’t want to think about what that meant, and was saved from dwelling on it by the sounds of growls from beyond the door behind him.

“Ah, my army. I called them. It’s a party!”

The door opened and werewolves entered. They stood, waiting for orders, though several cast lingering at Sam. He wasn’t sure if they knew who he was or if he was just tantalizingly close fresh meat.

“I can see that some of you would relish the chance to eat Sammy here, but I’m sorry. We have other pressing engagements. You can have the other two.”

Michael clamped a hand onto Sam’s shoulder and then they were somewhere else.

They were outside. The air was bitingly cold and Sam suppressed a shiver, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. They stood on a wide stone expanse and in front of Sam was a massive carved pillar rising a couple hundred feet into the air. A wry part of Sam wondered if Michael was trying to intimidate him through phallic imagery, but that was probably too creative by half for most angels.

Sam’s encyclopedic knowledge of the continental United States actually came in handy, because he actually knew where they were. They were still in Kansas City, maybe only a mile away, at the World War I monument. What he couldn’t figure out was why.

“I made a mistake, last time, by letting you go.” Michael said as he plucked the bottle of holy oil out of Sam’s still-upraised hand. The bottle vanished into thin air and Sam felt the spell release him from his stasis.

“Go to hell,” Sam snapped back.

“My mistake,” Michael continued, unfazed, “was not recognizing the prominent place you and your brother have in this world. In my world, you never existed. Imagine my surprise when I found out that most of my army knows your name. This vessel, and my control over it, probably did more for my recruitment than any of my promises.”

Sam wondered if he should be flattered. “And bossing me around will help with that?”

“It will demonstrate that both Winchesters are under my control.”

“Maybe for now,” Sam bit out. “Dean’s stronger than you.”

Michael smiled and it was nothing like Dean. “Stop breathing.”

Sam’s lungs locked up, mid-exhale. His mouth gaped open, soundlessly, and he staggered backwards, hands coming up on instinct to his throat. He glared at Michael through the panic and darkness threatening to engulf him. Michael wouldn’t let him suffocate to death. He wanted Sam for something. But it was hard to tell that to his sympathetic nervous system.

“Breathe.”

Sam sucked in a gasping breath.

“What I couldn’t have known, other than your fame, was that I could use the spell Lucifer told me about to my advantage. Did you know how your brother found out about it? I asked him to order you to call off your hunt. But I’ve been watching you through Dean’s eyes and thanks to your efforts I now know so much more about it.”

Michael had been watching them. It made sense, given his connection to the monsters he’d created. Worse than the violation Sam felt at the thought of Michael spying on him was imaging how Dean would feel. Was feeling. Despite Michael’s words Sam had to keep faith that Dean wasn’t completely suppressed by Michael, even if  knowing he was watching—“ _drowning_ ”—wasn’t much better.

“What I don’t know, what Dean doesn’t know, is who cursed you?” Michael’s phony curiosity sent anger thrumming through Sam. He knew this play. Michael wanted to drag their secrets into the open, to further discourage Dean. “Tell me who it was.”

“It was my fault,” Sam shot back, hoping that would satisfy him.

“Tsk, tsk,” Michael chastised. “That wasn’t what I asked. Tell me who cursed you.”

There was nothing Sam could do. “Our father.”

Michael feigned shock and horror. “How old were you?”

Not a direct order. “Go to hell.”

“Tell me.”

“Fifteen.”

“I didn’t expect to have much in common with this vessel,” Michael said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Our worlds were very different.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“But we both suffered from absent fathers. Look how he betrayed you, Sam. And to make Dean unknowingly complicit in the betrayal? Horrible.”

“Yeah, but our daddy issues didn’t make us burn a whole world,” Sam shot back.

Michael clenched his fist and pain once again tore through Sam, who sank to his knees on the cold pavement, gritting his teeth against the ache in his gut.

“Careful. My indulgence only reaches so far.” Michael dropped his hand to his side and the agony subsided.

“So, what’s your plan? Cause a mess here and hope your dad comes to fix it up?”

“No, he’s long abandoned you.”

Sam frowned as he staggered back to his feet. “No.”

“Oh, I saw Dean’s memories, your time with ‘Chuck’. A clever disguise. He always was a writer, churning out draft after draft, world after world. But what do you do with failed drafts? You discard them.”

A low queasiness grew in Sam’s stomach.

“Chuck’s perfect ending saw you, trapped in the Cage, suffering for eternity.”

It was something Sam tried not to think about. He’d read the bootleg copy of ‘Swan Song’, seen the pride that Chuck took in Sam and Dean making their own ending. It had hurt a lot less when he’d thought of Chuck as just a prophet, even if it was the Word of God either way.

“But you weren’t done yet, were you, Sam? Miracle of miracles, you escaped. And then your friend let the devil free. So much for Chuck’s ‘perfect ending.’”

Sam shuddered at Michael’s bitter tone as something in him resonated on the same frequency. He didn’t want to agree with the monster who had stolen away his brother.

“No, I’m going to destroy my father’s creations. And then I’m going to find another world and do the same to that Earth. And on and on until I catch up with the old man.”

“You want to kill God?” Sam asked, with no small amount of skepticism.

“He almost died on this world. Your own brother killed Death,” Michael said. “Anything can die.”

Sam shuddered. The winter chill had seeped in through his jacket and he blamed it on that. Sure.

Michael seemed lost in thought, giving Sam a chance to just observe. It was strange, looking at his brother’s and not recognizing him. Sam had been possessed more than he’d been on the other side, especially with Dean.

_Drowning. And that I remember. I felt every second of it—clawing, fighting for air._

Sam needed to save him. He couldn’t let Dean suffer like this.

And to do that, he’d need to break the curse.

The spell was simple, an incantation and some blood. The trouble was that he couldn’t do it alone. He’d need Dean.

“Come on, Sam.”

Michael walked away from the tower, trusting that Sam would follow. Which he did. There was no point in testing his boundaries just yet. He trailed Michael up several wide steps, towards a low stone wall.

Michael turned back to him. “Come greet your fans.”

Sam stepped up to the wall. Beyond the wall was a drop off that looked out on a massive lawn. The grassy expanse was filled with people.

No, Sam corrected himself. With monsters. Michael’s army.

There had to be hundreds of them.

Michael stepped up onto the low wall and gestured for Sam to do the same. It was wide enough to stand on easily, but the drop to the grass below was probably fifty feet, far enough that if he jumped he’d be lucky to get away with just a broken leg or two.

Sam was focused on the teeming mass of creatures. They were all humanoid, so it was hard to tell what exactly Michael was working with. They knew about the werewolves and the djinn who’d gone after Maggie. They had Dean’s memories to suggest he’d experimented on vampires and the encounter with ghouls in Phoenix. He was surprised to see them massed together. They’d never run into different types of monsters working with each other. While they were all pretty well dispatched by beheading, that type of close quarters fighting was risky. Their team of hunters numbered only a couple dozen, and that was counting his friends in this world. They were profoundly outmatched. Getting up close and personal to fight an army of monsters was never going to work.

They were really fucked.

 _Cas, Jack,_ Sam prayed quickly. _I hope you got out. Michael has his army massed in Kansas City. It’s big. If you hear this, get everyone back to the bunker._

He had to believe that Cas and Jack had escaped somehow. The alternative wasn’t worth contemplating.

Michael raised a hand and the dull rumble of monsters talking disappeared.

Were any humans seeing this? The museum here was probably closed but the park was just an open space in the middle of the city. It was late, but hundreds of people gathering in a park usually drew some police attention. Sam hoped it wouldn’t. Some of the monsters were probably hungry.

Michael began to speak, his voice amplified through some supernatural means to boom out over the crowd. “Too long you have remained in the shadows. Driven there by hunters, like my vessel. I know some of you recognize this body and still others know the name. Dean Winchester.”

A chorus of discontent rose from the massed beings.

“How many of you has Dean Winchester killed? How many more have lived in fear of him? No more! He is under my control now. As is his brother, Sam Winchester.” Michael gestured at Sam, who felt the eyes of hundreds of monsters turn to him.

“Kneel, Sam.”

Sam could feel the curse burrowing under his skin, sparking at his nerves. He didn’t want to kneel. It occurred to him that this might be the moment the archangel killed him, to demonstrate his power before his army. He fought, with every fiber of his being, tried to lock his joints into place.

Michael only gave him a patient smile as he waited.

Eventually the force of the curse overwhelmed his will and he landed hard on his knees. His head bowed as he panted with the exertion.

Sam felt a hand rest lightly on the top of his head. His face burned with anger and humiliation. A tremor ran through him, an echo of the Cage, of the long eternity he’d spent at another Michael’s mercy. He clamped his eyes shut.

Michael was still speaking, though the rush of blood pounding through Sam’s ears had drowned part of the speech out. He forced himself to listen long enough to hear the final bit, the unfamiliar patter of the most familiar voice.

“Fight with me! Become the hunters, instead of the hunted!”

The crowd erupted into rapturous cheers.

* * *

Michael didn’t kill Sam.

After the speech he transported them away from the park to a nicely appointed penthouse. At first Sam saw the expanse of water and assumed they’d flown to the east coast, but a moment later he saw Navy Pier.

Chicago.

That was good, not terribly far from Lebanon.

For all the good that did him.

Michael disappeared a moment after they arrived, leaving Sam alone.

He didn’t waste any time.

Michael hadn’t frisked Sam or anything. None of Sam’s weapons were a threat to an archangel. He still had his gun, resting at the small of his back. He’d left his machete behind, but he had a silver knife. Not that it would do him much good against Michael’s super-monsters. Discretion would be the better part of valor, here.

The other thing the archangel hadn’t thought to take was his cell phone. He didn’t want to risk a call, not sure if anyone was listening in, but he sent off a flurry of texts. To Mom, to Bobby, to Jody and Donna, Cas and Jack, and a group message to his team of hunters. He wasn’t sure what Michael’s plan was at the moment, so his orders were simple: keep your heads down, put up warding, and stay away from anyone looking like Dean. He debated about whether or not to tell them where he was. In the end he did, but made it clear that any rescue attempts were off the table.

Once that was done he made his way across expensive hardwood floors and through the spacious open-plan space towards what he assumed was the front door. It had a fancy digital security system, complete with a video monitor instead of a peephole. Sam poked at it a bit, but it didn’t seem to be active.

There was nothing else to do but try.

He swung open the door, knife in hand.

The hallway was empty.

Maybe Michael hadn’t had time to post guards. Sam stepped out into the wide hallway, shutting the door carefully behind him.

He tried to remain as quiet as possible, striding down the hall, though his footsteps echoed in his ears. He glanced behind himself. Nothing.

It couldn’t be this easy, right?

There was a corner up ahead. He pressed himself against the drywall before taking a quick peek.

Two men stood halfway down the next hall, in front of what Sam assumed was the elevator.

Crap.

He didn’t know what monsters they were, but he might be able to handle two of them. He really wished he’d kept his machete.

He took a couple deep, steadying breaths and stepped out into the hall.

They saw him almost immediately and their eyes faded gold as their teeth and claws extended.

Werewolves.

Sam ducked the first attack, coming up from under to throw Werewolf #1 off his feet. The second was right on his heels and Sam spun out of the way, launching a hard punch at the side of his head, which the monster ducked. Sam lashed out with his blade, scoring a line of blood across Werewolf #2’s chest, but it didn’t even faze him. Sam was on the defensive now, blocking and dodging a flurry of swipes. The razor sharp claws missed him by millimeters as he leapt back.

He’d lost track of Werewolf #1, but became suddenly aware of his presence when a heavy mass smashed into his side, knocking him to the floor.

“Sam Winchester,” the monster growled from atop him. “You’re lucky the boss still has plans for you.”

Sam swiped up with his knife but the werewolf caught his arm easily, smashing his hand into the floor until the blade fell from nerveless fingers.

“Try it, hunter. I’m just looking for an excuse to gut you.”

A hand in Sam’s hair pulled his head up and slammed it back into the floor, stunning him. He lost track of things for a few moments as his surroundings swirled around him. Next he knew, he was being dragged back down the hallway.

Things went fuzzy again.

When he came back to himself, he was lying on the floor of the penthouse, a small puddle of blood seeping from a split lip that he couldn’t recall receiving. His head was pounding, probable concussion. It felt like someone had tried to kick his ribs in, but when he shifted nothing felt broken.

He’d lost his knife. And his gun. And his cell phone.

Sam let his head slump to the floor as he surrendered back down into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

He woke to the chilling feel of grace and came up swinging.

Michael caught his wrist easily.

It took a moment for the panic to subside, but when it did Sam realized that the wounds inflicted by the werewolf prison guards had been healed.

“Better?” Michael asked.

Sam jerked his hand back and Michael relinquished it easily.

The light through the massive glass windows was faded, but Sam couldn’t tell if it was meant to be early in the morning or late in the evening. He scrambled back but only made it a few feet before he was backed into a wall.

“I figured you would try to escape once. I assume I won’t need to belabor the point.”

“What do you want from me?” Sam asked, voice sleep-rough even though the only sleep had been unconsciousness.

Michael paced deeper into the penthouse, his antique style tailored suit out of place among the ultra-modern décor. He was an anachronism, an anomaly.

“When I first gained control over your brother, I underestimated you. There were no Winchesters in my world. Surely two humans couldn’t have made that difference. Even after looking through some of your brothers’ memories, I could only imagine that he had an inflated sense of self-importance.”

Sam pushed himself up the wall until he was standing. Michael didn’t turn away from the window, where he was looking out over the lake. The eastern sky was dull gray; it must have been evening.

Michael continued. “But a good general doesn’t discard information, no matter how unlikely. You and your brother have been busy in this world. Not just with my brother and I, but with my father’s rejected creations, the leviathans, and with my aunt as well. It became clear that I ignored you at my own peril.”

“What does all your brilliant insight say about monologuing?” It was dumb, back-talking an archangel. Sam knew that. He braced himself for an attack.

Michael turned and smiled at him. “You remind me of my brother.”

Sam would’ve preferred the attack.

“Even if I didn’t respect your accomplishments, my army does. How does it feel, Sam Winchester, to be the monster under the monsters’ beds?”

“And that’s why you’re keeping me prisoner? To scare your army?”

“What better way to establish my power than to demonstrate my control over their greatest enemies?”

“You won’t control Dean forever,” Sam said.

“I don’t need to control him forever,” Michael replied sedately. “Just long enough to burn this world to ashes.”

 

* * *

 

Michael left shortly after that. Sam decided to explore his lavish prison. There was a kitchen, but no food and, more importantly, no knives or pointy utensils to be used as weapons. He drank from the faucet in long gulps, hoping that the archangel hadn’t forgotten that humans need to eat every once in a while.

The rest of it was furnished impersonally, long straight lines and bold accent colors and no hints that a real person had ever lived here.

He refused to sleep in the massive bed. It was probably dumb, a useless rebellion, but doing so felt too much like accepting his fate. On the other hand the couch was nice enough that it wasn’t much of a sacrifice, but his back couldn’t handle another night on the floor.

The sun woke him the next morning as it rose bright over the lake.

He took a shower before changing back into the same clothes. It would’ve been nice if there were some books or a TV, something to pass the time. There were digital clocks on the stove and microwave, but time only passed even slower when he watched them, so he tried not to.

Just before lunch there was a knock on the door. Sam approached it warily, wishing again for a proper peephole.

“Open up!” Someone yelled from the other side of the door.

Sam took a deep breath, braced himself, and did so.

The werewolves from his previous escape attempt were standing just outside, shoulder to shoulder. One of them raised an arm. He was holding a brown paper bag. “Food for your highness,” he said with a smirk.

“What is it?” Sam asked, but he could already smell the spices. Indian food, if he had to guess. Sam’s mouth started watering. He was starving.

“Whatever it is, it’s not nearly as delicious as ripping out your heart would be, so take it before we start to get any ideas.”

Sam grabbed the bag and slammed the door in their faces.

When he got to the kitchen and started pulling out the food he found that it was saag paneer with a side of white rice and a couple samosas. Some of his favorites. He hoped that was a coincidence. A shudder ran through him as he imagined Michael leafing through Dean’s memories to try and figure out what food Sam would eat.

He briefly considered dumping it in the trash, but he’d need his strength. This wasn’t the time to get precious about food.

With sustenance in his system Sam was better able to make plans. The first step was trying to find a sharp object. In the end he settled for some metal he broke off of a lamp. It wasn’t going to be very useful for self-defense, but the corner was sharp enough that Sam was able to slice open his forearm. Blasting Michael away might buy him some time, if necessary. It took a while to draw the sigil. He didn’t want to hack up his arm any more than necessary.

He also eyed up the stovetop range. Setting off a gas explosion was a last resort type of option.

They came again in the evening with more take-out. It was a salad this time. Sam was beginning to think he was being bribed, but he wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the food. Michael didn’t show up again.

The pattern persisted for a few mind-numbing days. Lunch and dinner, plastic utensils that were useless as weapons. Enough food to keep going, but only enough to take the edge off the hunger. There were only so many sigils Sam could draw. He tried to exercise a little, but without a change of clothes he was wary of exerting himself too hard. Given Michael’s sartorial taste Sam didn’t want to see what clothes he’d come up with.

By the fourth day of captivity Sam was bored out of his skull. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the black site he and Dean had been kept in after their supposed attempted assassination of the president, but it was made much worse by knowing the hell Dean was going through this time. He had to hope that everyone else was working on it, but Sam had never suffered inaction well.

When his jailers came by for their nightly delivery of dinner—Sam was guessing Thai by the smell—he stared at them wearily. “Why are you guys doing this?”

“What, bringing you food?”

Sam shook his head, refusing to take the bag. “No, working with Michael.”

The werewolf laughed. “Asks the trapped Winchester. He seems to be doing a good job so far.”

“You guys really believe what he’s selling?”

“Don’t need to ‘believe’ anything. Silver doesn’t even affect us now. We’re faster, stronger.”

That all made sense, at least. But that was only part of it. “I have been to the universe that Michael is from,” Sam said, low and urgent. “His endgame doesn’t look like paradise for you. The monsters in his world were starving and deformed because he’d burned the world to ashes. That’s what he’s going to do here.”

He seemed taken aback. “Take your food.”

“When have angels ever cared about anyone but themselves? He’s using you.”

The werewolf threw the bag of food at Sam and stalked away. His companion stood and glowered until Sam finally shut the door.

 

* * *

 

They were back again for lunch the next day and shouldered their way through the door. Sam backed away, wishing once again for his knife, even though it hadn’t done him much good before.

Fortunately, they didn’t seem to be trying to attack.

“What is Michael’s plan?”

Sam repressed his satisfaction, keeping up a concerned poker face. At the same time a frission of fear ran through him. He was well aware that Michael could spy through his army’s eyes and ears, but he wasn’t sure how closely he was watching every one of them. There was every chance that Michael would incinerate these two before they spread any dissent, but it was a chance Sam was willing to take.

He described what he’d seen in the Apocalypse World, the desolation and how few humans remained. He told them what Michael had told him, that cold night at the monument. His fury and his desire to reduce his father’s creations to ash and then simply move on afterwards.

They went away, subdued, leaving Sam with his rapidly cooling pizza. He’d only seen those two guards, but he figured they had to swap out sometime, probably with others taking a night shift. He tried to imagine how quickly the information would spread, if it could outpace a furious archangel. Did werewolves have WhatsApp?

As he fell asleep on the couch that night his mind swirled with anticipation and fear, hand wrapped tight around his makeshift knife.

 

* * *

 

Sam woke unable to breathe.

His eyes shot open in a blind panic, hands clutched futilely around his throat. Gaping soundlessly, he rolled off the couch, landing in a heap on the rich hardwood floor.

“Samuel. Been telling tales out of school?”

Sam fought back at the panic and turned his head to see Michael standing in front of the windows, outlined by the rising sun, casting his face in shadows and impossible to read.

Well, that answered that question. Michael knew.

“I remember telling you that my magnanimity would only reach so far,” Michael said, tone falsely conciliatory.

Through the encroaching darkness Sam tried his best to glare at the archangel. Like hell he was going to give him the satisfaction of begging.

They remained at a standstill for long moments, before Michael finally waved his hand and the air rushed into Sam’s lungs. He gasped, overwhelmed by relief.

Before he could get his head back in order there was a hand grabbing at his shirt, pulling him up with inhuman strength. Everything was still spinning when Michael landed a forceful blow across Sam’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground again, ears ringing.

That was when Sam began to worry that he’d fucked up.

“What,” Sam gasped out, writhing against the floor as he attempted to get up. “Your army not so thrilled with the actual plan?”

That earned a shiny wingtip shoe to Sam’s side, flipping him onto his back, giving Sam a clear look at Michael’s face. Sam had seen his brother angry more times than he could count, but he still didn’t recognize the expression Michael had twisted Dean’s face into. It was entirely alien.

Except for how it wasn’t. Not totally. Sam felt a deep chill run through him. But he was committed now.

“Dean,” he gasped out. “Dean, I’m here.”

Michael laughed, because he had those memories too. “You think this will be like Stull? I’m not as _weak_ as my brother was.” He punctuated his words with another kick to Sam’s side, cracking ribs. “And Dean isn’t here to listen to your pathetic cries.” Michael reached down and pulled Sam painfully to his feet once again, raining blows down on Sam’s face. He felt a cheekbone shatter.

Sam wrapped his hands around Dean’s—Michael’s—hand, the one fisted in his shirt. “Dean…” he panted, finding no other words.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Michael said, wrapping his hand around Sam’s throat. “And just before you die, I’ll heal you up. And then maybe I’ll do it again.”

A shudder ran through Sam. It was happening again. Locked up with an archangel, with Michael. An endless ouroboros of torture until they—he—grew bored of it. Oh, god.

“Dean,” he cried, mindlessly this time, voice cracking with terror.

Michael laughed, an unfamiliar laugh in a well-known register. And this, too, was nothing new. Using Dean’s face, his voice, his words against Sam. “Silence, Sam.”

Michael didn’t waste his time with any more small talk. The Michael that Sam went to the Cage with had kept to himself in heaven until they fell.

This Michael had been torturing humans for years, but he was too angry now for finesse, sticking to simply bludgeoning Sam into submission.

There was a moment, when Sam was coughing up blood, that he saw someone standing behind Michael. It looked like Jessica. Not Sam’s Jessica, but the reaper who had been assigned to them. She looked sad. He wished she could do something. She held up her hands—clean hands—of course. Sam wondered if she could act quickly enough when he died that Michael wouldn’t be able to revive him. That’d be enough.

He fell into darkness.

 

* * *

 

He woke face down on the floor, head pillowed on a plush rug gone tacky with dried blood. Sam took a quick inventory and found that, in keeping with his promise, Michael had healed him.

Of course, he hadn’t cleaned up all the blood.

Sam peeled himself off of the gummy mess, sparing a thought for his poor, ruined clothes. Sam didn’t think of himself as particularly vain, but he did value cleanliness.

He took a seat on the nearby couch, not particularly minding that he might stain it with his bloodied clothes. There was a rip in his flannel shirt, up near the throat where Michael had grabbed it. Sam wished he’d fixed that too.

The sky outside was overcast but bright enough to be daylight. He wondered if it was still the same day.

These thoughts were the easiest to handle. Simple, concrete things that only skirted the edge of what Michael had done. What he’d promised to do in the future. Sam couldn’t dwell on that, not if he wanted to remain functional. And he needed to remain functional to save Dean.

There was a knock on the door and Sam noticed that the light had dimmed considerably. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there.

Michael didn’t knock, so Sam wasn’t very worried about who was at the door.

The two people outside weren’t the werewolves from before. It was a man and a woman, but there were no markers to tell Sam what kind of monster they were. He wondered what had happened to his two previous jailers. Nothing good.

The woman handed held out a bag of food. Sam hesitated. “Where are the other two?”

She shook her head, but refused to say anything. Sam caved and took the food.

The clock said it was late afternoon. The food was cold, but Sam choked it down. He hadn’t noticed before, but now he was hungry, and thought that he might have lost a day somewhere in there. A shower cleaned the blood out of his hair and the evening was spent standing in his boxers, trying to wash the blood out of his shirts and jeans with hand soap.

He left his clothes hung up in the bathroom and pulled the comforter off the bed to wrap around himself as he fell asleep on the blood-stained couch.

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed in a similar manner. He was down to only being fed once a day, which left him hungry and tired. His jailers didn’t seem to be allowed to talk to him, or to even listen to him for very long. His working out tapered off as he lost energy. He wondered what would happen if he died now, instead of at Michael’s hands.

The thought spurred a memory of Jessica the reaper watching him fade away.

What the hell, it was worth a shot.

“Jessica?”

The silence of the room answered him.

“Jessica, I know you’re there,” Sam said, looking around. When he turned back a woman was standing in the room.

“Hello.” She had a dark complexion and orange dress.

“Where’s Jessica?”

The woman smiled serenely. “My name’s Violet, it’s my shift. We have shifts now, because you mess up so, so many things.”

Sam wasn’t sure what an immortal being needed to do when they were off duty, but that was beside the point. “I have to get out of here.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Listen, Death owes us, right? From the whole Rowena thing? You know about that, right?”

“The Rowena thing you started?”

Sam didn’t think that was a totally accurate depiction of what happened, but it wasn’t worth arguing over. “You know what Michael wants to do, right? Burn the world, kill everyone. Death doesn’t want that. I can help, but you have to get me out of here.”

“We don’t interfere, Sam,” she said, and if Sam didn’t know any better he’d say she actually sounded regretful about that.

He started to argue, but she blinked away.

Balls.

 

* * *

 

Michael returned days later and flew them both away with a snap.

They landed outside a sturdy, well-kept farmhouse. The ground was covered in snow and the cold was biting, but the walk they’d landed on was neatly shoveled.

It was only a moment later that Sam realized he recognized it, realized he knew where he was.

Grantsburg, Wisconsin.

Michael approached the house, walking up the steps to the wide porch, and Sam, for lack of a better alternative, followed.

Reverend Jim Myers opened the door, face pale and haunted. He didn’t seem surprised to see Michael, even in Dean’s body.

“Reverend,” Michael said in greeting, before walking sedately through the door. Reverend Jim had to step back to give him room to pass. He met Sam’s eyes curiously, but didn’t ask what Sam was doing there.

They moved into the living room. The members of the reverend’s congregation were standing against the walls. Sam recognized Bess in a far corner, holding a little girl with white-blonde hair. Garth’s daughter. Sam realized he didn’t even know her name.

A sick feeling rolled through Sam, because he’d brought this down on them. He’d asked Garth to infiltrate Michael’s army, and whatever happened here would be the consequences of that.

Michael sat in the middle of the wide couch. “Come here, Sam.”

Even without the curse, Sam would have stepped up next to the couch. He couldn’t afford to piss off Michael, not when he could hurt these people, Garth’s family.

“Kneel.”

Sam choked down the humiliation and knelt at his brother’s feet, hoping that his degradation would be enough to sate Michael’s anger. They were messages to each other. Sam was a message of Michael’s power and control. The reverend and his people were a message of Michael’s anger.

“You know why I’m here.”

Sam could see out of the corner of his eye that Reverend Jim had sat perched on the edge of a chair across from Michael. “You want us to join you.”

“You’re a God-fearing man, Reverend. Surely you won’t turn away one of His Sons.”

“We’re… we’re simple people. We don’t want to fight.”

Sam clenched his fists where they were resting on his thighs, but he couldn’t say anything.

“I would like to believe that. I would like to leave you to worship in peace,” Michael said, all fake compassion. “But one of your flock has already betrayed me.”

Sam had his head tilted to watch the reverend’s reaction and caught the quick dart of his eyes towards his daughter.

“Ah yes,” Michael said, turning in his seat. “Bess. The traitor’s wife. Can you join us?”

Bess stepped carefully around the couch, coming to stand next to her father. Her hands were clutched tight around the little girl she held in her arms. If Sam had to guess he’d estimate that she was about two.

“What’s her name?” Michael asked.

“Abigail,” Bess whispered.

“Abigail. ‘My father is joy.’ How appropriate.” Michael paused to lean back into the couch. “I assume you’d like her to see her father again someday.”

Bess nodded. Reverend Jim set a hand on the small of her back, some small measure of comfort.

Michael turned back to the reverend. “I’ve recently had to thin my ranks a little and I’m looking for more werewolves. There are benefits, of course. You’ll be stronger, faster, and resistant to silver. You can even keep your congregation and preach to them the Good Word. But if you want to not be speaking to an empty room, your people will need to join me.”

Reverend Jim glanced up at his daughter, before looking to Sam. Sam couldn’t give him any hope there. He’d brought this down upon them.

“We accept.”

 

* * *

 

Michael made Sam watch as he forced the gathering to drink his disgusting blood and grace mixture. Sam watched their eyes light up blue with the power of grace.

The last one to drink was little Abigail. She’d refused at first, confused by the activities going on around her and probably picking up on the terror suffusing the room. With tears streaming down her face Bess had coaxed her into moving her face out from the crook of Bess’ neck and taking a sip.

Sam had mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry’ at Bess, but he found no forgiveness in her eyes.

Michael took them away then, returning them to Sam’s penthouse prison.

Sam was still kneeling, now on the dried bloodstains of the area rug, his body tense with apprehension.

Michael looked down at him and his eyes shone blue. “Do you know what they’re doing right now, Sam?”

Sam didn’t respond.

“They’re crying. They’re scared. And all of it thanks to you.”

Then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Sam estimated he’d been prisoner for about two weeks, though he couldn’t be sure. Being forced to watch the subjugation of Garth’s family weighed on him. He never fell asleep that night, curled up on the couch, staring out over the lake.

It hurt, to think of those good people under Michael’s control because of Sam’s failure.

It hurt worse to imagine how Dean would feel when he found out. If he found out.

If he was even still in there.

His jailers knocked midafternoon with their daily delivery of food, but Sam didn’t answer the door. He didn’t get up. They eventually let themselves in, but their instructions forbidding them from interaction kept them from trying to rouse him. They must have left the food because for a while Sam could smell it.

He got up to use the bathroom. His head hurt, probably dehydration, and he drank a couple handfuls of water from the sink before returning to the couch.

He might have slept, it was hard to say. The sun rose the next day and he was awake to watch the sky light up in muted grays. There was another delivery of food. Time seemed to move in strange ways. Every second seemed to stretch on forever, but then he felt like he was missing huge chunks of time.

Michael appeared that night and Sam couldn’t even find the energy to flinch.

“Get up,” Michael said, and Sam was forced to comply. He stood on wobbly legs as the change in position made his vision briefly fade into blackness.

Michael was pacing. That was new.

“Kneel.”

Sam didn’t resist. Michael’s power plays were becoming predictable. He watched the angel move back and forth. Dean liked to pace, too.

After a moment it was like Michael remembered Sam was there and he stepped up to him before backhanding him across the face. The force of it, supplemented by angel strength, sent Sam crashing to the floor. Blood filled his mouth where his teeth had cut into the inside of his cheek. He probed at the wound with his tongue and spat out a mouthful of blood.

“You and your moronic brother are the only real differences from my world.”

There was a lecture on the butterfly effect that Sam could probably give in disagreement, but he wasn’t entirely sure what Michael’s point was.

“I have you. I have him. That should be enough. You’re the changed factor, the rest should fall in line.”

Something must have gone wrong to make Michael this upset. Sam could only imagine that Cas or Mary or one of their allies had struck a blow against him.

“Not going the way you planned?” Sam taunted.

Michael looked startled, like he’d forgotten Sam was there already. “Maybe I could pay your friends a visit in their sad little bunker. You can come along. Or what’s left of you when I’m done. Maybe that would send enough of a message that to resist me is pointless. I have burned one world. Yours isn’t so special that I can’t do the same here.”

The idea put a smile on Michael’s stolen face. Sam tried to scramble away but Michael’s “stop” froze him in place. Michael took a knife out from his coat pocket, a small curved blade that he flashed about before pressing the tip under Sam’s chin.

“Stand up, Sam.”

Sam rose. The knife followed him up.

“Now, this is delicate work, so I’m going to need you to remain still.”

But Sam couldn’t, not to that small, sharp knife like a scalpel. Not to the this-is-perfectly-reasonable tone Michael employed. And certainly not to the gentle suggestion that he shouldn’t move through his torture. A piece of his mind went spiraling back to the Cage and the rest of him shoved Michael hard in the chest.

The blade in Michael’s hand nicked Sam’s throat as he went, but he barely even felt it. The push did less than nothing to the angel, who didn’t even take a step back, but Michael wrapped a hand around Sam’s throat in retaliation.

“Fine. Fine! I have tried to be reasonable. I have looked the other way while you and your pathetic friends staged their feeble rebellion. But I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

He threw Sam, tossing over two hundred pounds of hunter across the room with ease. Sam landed hard on his side, wrenching his bad shoulder. He hadn’t even recovered his breath when Michael was there, kicking him in the side hard enough to crack ribs. Sam ended up on his back, heaving for air, when another kick connected with the side of his face. Something cracked and one eye went dark.

“You don’t seem to realize that I’ve kept you around for convenience, Sam. Killing you would be just as easy. And right now it’d be a lot more fun.”

Sam curled away as much as he could as Michael launched another powerful kick into his side. He wasn’t messing around this time.

Michael was going to kill him.

A strong hand pushed him onto his back and there was a weight on his bruised and broken ribs. Sam managed a cough before hands were wrapped tight around his throat.

“Do you remember doing this to Dean? Do you remember choking your brother when his only sin was trying to keep you from becoming a monster? Because he does, Sam.”

For a moment Sam thought he might be back there, in that honeymoon suite, losing his only family again, his brother’s furious face above him.

“I think death would be a kindness. Let’s see if I’m feeling that nice.”

The vision in his one eye was growing dim.

Sam reached out, blindly. One hand wrapped around Michael’s wrist, the other caught the lapel of his suit, clutching it tight.

Another memory, of grabbing his brother’s jacket long ago in a big empty house turned hotel. Drunk, asking his brother to kill him.

Maybe Dean was keeping his promise now.

That wouldn’t be so bad.

Things went dark.

Sam came back to himself on the floor, gasping for breath. The pressure on his chest was gone.

“Sam?”

Sam let out a sob. It hurt to turn his head, sent pain ricocheting through his skull, but he couldn’t ignore that voice, Dean’s voice.

“Sammy, oh fuck,” Dean was muttering. He was still dressed in Michael’s stuck up clothes, but he was Dean again, kneeling beside him.

“Dean.” It hurt to smile.

“Jesus, I did a number on you.”

“Not you.”

Dean looked tired. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, buddy. We gotta get you out of here, though. I can’t hold him long.” He grabbed at Sam’s shoulders and pulled him up into a sitting position. Sam’s ribs protested but he only let out a quiet groan. “You gotta help me here.”

“No, no,” Sam protested, swatting with his unbroken hand at Dean. “Have to break the curse.” Whatever else, whether he lived or died, Sam couldn’t afford to be used anymore.

Dean looked like he might protest, but quickly caved. Sam didn’t want to know what memories convinced him. “You know how to do it?”

“I know the incantation, just need blood.”

“Well, you got enough of that.” Dean patted down Michael’s clothes and came up with the small, curved blade. Sam eyed it up. It wasn’t a normal angel weapon. Dean was looking vaguely ill as he stared at it. Sam could only imagine.

“That’ll do,” Sam said, breaking Dean out of his trance.

“Yeah,” Dean said weakly. “Yeah, okay, Sammy. You know, it would’ve been a lot easier if we’d done this weeks ago.”

Sam’s ribs protested as he laughed and then winced against the pain.

Dean nodded and drew the point of the blade across his palm, blood welling up quickly in its wake. He grabbed Sam’s hand and did the same. The sting barely registered against the backdrop of the rest of his wounds.

“Wait,” Dean said, holding his sliced up hand away from Sam. “Before we start.” With his clean hand he dipped a finger into Sam’s blood and started sketching out a sigil on the floor. Sam immediately recognized the angel-banishing symbol that he’d painted in other areas of the penthouse. It was good thinking. Sam couldn’t reach any of the others he’d painted and he might have just enough time to banish Michael if this went sideways.

“You gotta…” Dean said as he finished up. “You gotta send me away when this is done. Okay, Sammy?”

“Dean… I’m not gonna leave you.”

Dean smiled, his good hand coming up to cup at Sam’s neck. “You gotta stop Michael. No matter what.”

Sam’s one working eye widened because he knew what Dean meant by that. “What? No!”

Dean’s hand tightened at the junction of Sam’s neck and shoulder and he gave a little shake. “You gotta. You can’t let me hurt any more people. You’re the only one I trust to do it.”

It was on the tip of Sam’s tongue to remind Dean that it wasn’t him, it was never him, but he knew exactly how hollow that would ring. “I’m going to save you. We’re going to save you.”

“Michael is going to destroy this world if he gets the chance,” Dean said, voice low and insistent. “You can’t let that happen. No matter what. No one else dies because of me. Promise me, Sam.”

“Okay,” he lied. He’d send Michael away if he had to, but he was going to save Dean. There were no other options. Sam wanted to save the world, he wanted to save his friends and family and a world full of innocent civilians.

But not as much as he wanted to save Dean.

But first things first, he had to get the spell off to do any of that, or else Michael might be able to stop him. “We both have to say the spell, so you’ll need to repeat after me.”

“Got it.”

Sam called up his memory of the incantation and hoped that it was accurate. “ _Break the binding_.”

“These are some pretty weird vows, Sammy,” Dean joked weakly, but quickly stumbled his way through a repetition. Sam was hoping that intention would do most of the work, since his pronunciation of Sumerian was rusty.

“ _Release the bound one._ ”

Dean stumbled slowly through the foreign syllables.

Sam could feel the magic building, like a pressure behind his eyes.

“ _Free these souls!_ ”

Dean choked out the final words and Sam clasped his bloody hand around Dean’s, pressing their cuts together. A light erupted between them, emanating from their joined hands. Fire raced up Sam’s arm, burning through his veins until it reached his gut, where it exploded into a maelstrom of pain.

When the spell had first been cast it hurt a lot. But that was a fifteen year old Sam, whose experiences with pain up until then culminated with a broken arm when he was five and a couple rough hunts. Since then Sam had been to the deepest depths of hell. He’d been tortured there and on Earth. He’d been shot, stabbed, and bludgeoned. Sam knew pain.

This hurt.

He couldn’t stop, so he tightened his grip around Dean’s hand. He had no idea if Dean was doing the same, he could barely feel his brother’s hand through the conflagration. Several angels had pressed their hands into Sam’s body and touched his soul. This felt a little like that, like Lucifer raking icy fingers into his soul.

Burning. He was burning. Sam focused on nothing more than his hand around Dean’s and hoped that after the fire there would be something left of him. Of them both.

When the pain subsided Sam found himself splayed across the penthouse floor. His entire body throbbed and the wounds Michael had inflicted began to reassert themselves. The back of his head hurt and he realized he must have slammed it against the wooden floor. He didn’t even remember.

He felt different.

Deep in his center there was an emptiness. Not the empty vacuum of soullessness, he was relieved to realize. Nor was it the void of missing memories.

This was more like the empty feeling of a clean room.

The curse was gone.

Sam was too worn out to move and his busted up face ached as a grin spread across it.

Holy shit, he was free.

Dean moved next to him. Sam mustered enough energy to turn his head and watch his brother slowly stand. Through the blinding relief he felt a quick stab of fear that breaking the curse could have done something to Dean.

Then Dean turned to look down at him and the fear bloomed into terror.

Michael.

Sam swung a hand towards the sigil but Michael was quicker, grabbing Sam’s wrist. He _tsk_ -ed as he brought a foot down  on the sigil, twisting it like he was putting out a cigarette, smearing the bloody lines.

“I should thank you, Sam,” Michael said. “Dean was more of a fighter than I anticipated. But breaking that curse did some damage. I don’t think we’ll be seeing any more of him.”

“You can’t control me,” Sam said, clinging to that truth. It had to be worth something. He couldn’t have sacrificed Dean to Michael for nothing.

Michael tilted his head, looking at Sam with unabashed pity. “Can’t I? You’re still my prisoner here. And we’re just getting started.” Michael still held his curved blade. Once again he brought it up beneath Sam’s chin. “I encourage you to try and convince me to stop. Beg. Plead. But this ends when I decide. And I’m having fun.”

The blade flashed as Michael dug it into the meat of Sam’s shoulder. He screamed, but he was already running on fumes, skirting the ragged edge of unconsciousness, so it came out as a wheeze.

He wasn’t going to last long.

But death was no escape, not with an archangel’s power. Sam knew that, intimately.

Michael was plenty skilled with the knife, but Sam lost track of his expert incisions as the blackness closed in.

He hoped Jessica or Violet were quicker this time.

There was an explosion of sound, like a dozen raised voices. The impression of bright lights even as the darkness grew more absolute.

And then he was gone.


	5. Epilogue

Sam woke.

Panic filled him for a moment as his brain struggled to catch up and he flailed, his hands caught in fabric.

With preternatural strength hands pressed him back down and he fought against them, against _Michael._

Until his surroundings registered.

He was in the bunker, in his room.

“Sam!”

Cas’ worried face swam into focus through his ebbing panic and Sam let himself fall back to the mattress. “Cas?”

Cas smiled, clearly relieved to have Sam back with them. Sam glanced around and found Jack and Mary there as well.

Everything caught up with Sam in a rush. “You survived.”

“Yes,” Cas said. He exchanged a quick look with Jack, who looked guilty, but Sam was too relieved to be very concerned.

And too confused. “How did I get here?”

“We don’t know,” Cas admitted.

“You just appeared in the bunker,” Mary added.

“On top of the map table,” Jack piped in.

“You were gravely injured,” Cas said. “I healed you to the best of my ability.”

Sam thought on that for a moment, taking a quick stock of his body. He felt at his face, where a thick pad of gauze covered his eye. He remembered Michael’s foot and his lost vision and could only hope it wasn’t permanent. Dean would never let him live down an eyepatch.

Dean.

Sam swallowed back a wave of nausea, tried to focus on the here and now. He had no more broken bones or deep lacerations. Cas had done his best. “Thanks, Cas.”

“What about Michael?” Jack asked.

The nausea was back. “He’s still out there. Still has Dean. I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t meet their eyes. He couldn’t even promise them that there was a Dean left to save, too aware of the pressure an archangel could put on a soul already tested by a curse. Too aware that their options to retrieve his brother were dwindling rapidly.

A hand squeezed his and he looked up to find his mom’s determined face. “We’ll get him back.”

Sam only nodded and squeezed back.

“Sam, what happened when Michael took over?” Cas asked.

It surprised Sam that it took them this long to ask. He’d been missing for weeks. He wondered if Rowena had kept his secret or if they hadn’t bothered to bring her in. He’d have to tell her what had happened to Dean. She had her own issues with archangels.

“There was a curse. An old one, on me. Michael used it, but it’s gone now.”

It wasn’t nearly enough explanation, but the three of them didn’t ask for elaboration. His energy was already flagging.

“We’ll let you rest,” Mary said, leaving no room for argument.

Sam knew he shouldn’t. He needed to do something to help find Dean. But whatever else Cas had healed, the curse and the beating beforehand had taken a lot out of him. He couldn’t force his eyes back open. A hand ran through his hair. He thought it was probably his mom.

 

* * *

 

He woke ten hours later, a modern record for him. The clock on his night stand told him it was late morning.

He watched the red numbers click over again and again.

He should get up. There was a job to do. He couldn’t contact Garth’s family, not without alerting Michael, but he needed to have someone watch out for them. He had to figure out where Garth himself was. He had to stop Michael from hurting anyone else he cared about.

Above all of that, he needed to find a way to save Dean.

He thought he should be happier.

He was free of a curse that had haunted him for over twenty years—most of his life. He’d always insisted to himself that he hated what John had done to him and would do anything—within reason—to free himself.

It wasn’t entirely a lie.

But he was finding that it wasn’t entirely the truth, either.

It was like the curse had been weighing him down that entire time, and now he was cut free but finding that there was terror in weightlessness. The curse had bound him to Dean, but did he really want to sever that connection? Left to his own devices he’d nearly ended the world. He’d killed innocent people. He’d abandoned Keven to demons and Dean to purgatory. He’d done horrible things.

Sam wanted to believe that he’d learned better, but look where his leadership had lead: with Garth MIA and his family under the control of a despotic archangel. The only weapon they knew of that could hurt Michael had been destroyed. And the best case scenario for Dean is that he was once again drowning under the weight of Michael’s presence.

Here, in the dark of his room, Sam allowed himself to consider the other possibilities.

The empty eyes of Michael’s last vessel, abandoned in the bunker when he’d taken control of Dean. The stories of Raphael’s comatose vessel.

Sam’s own shattered soul barely taking back control from Lucifer long enough to sacrifice himself.

Eventually the call of nature became too much to ignore and he was forced to get up. His head throbbed and he swayed on his feet, but stabilized himself with a hand pressed to the wall.

He’d taken care of business and was shuffling back to his room when noise from the library pulled him off course.

When he stepped into the main room he recognized that it had once again become the command center he’d run in Dean’s absence.

Charlie was working at a computer, showing Maggie something. Cas and Jack were going through piles of books. In the distance he could see the big continental U.S. map stretched out over the map table. They probably knew about Chicago, but he should tell them about Grantsburg.

“Hey, Chief!” Riley announced. Heads shot up all over.

Sam had failed them. Michael was free and once again had his perfect vessel.

But they were still here. Still ready to fight.

He couldn’t betray them by doing any less.

Dean was out there. Sam’s earlier doubts seemed insubstantial in the bright light of their friends and family. If there was any soul strong enough to survive what had been done to it, it was Dean. Which meant that he was relying on Sam to bring him home. He couldn’t order Sam to do it anymore, but he would never have to.

Saving each other was just what they did.

“Okay, show me what you’ve got.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for leaving it there, much like the actual show I had a hard time figuring out how to fix the Michael problem. I've not ruled out returning to this universe... if only because I'd love to see this fic's version of Episode 300. In the meantime I believe in Sam Winchester. ;)


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